Grief and Grace
by dracademented
Summary: Inside, you will find a hidden side of Legolas Thranduilion, the last of the great Elvin Princes. Tragedy befalls him when he preforms an act of selfless bravery; can Arwen keep him alive until her twin brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, can reach him?
1. Grief and Grace Pt 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

**Author's Note**: This is just a story I couldn't help writing, but to all of you who are reading 'Unexpected', don't worry. This won't be interfering with that, I promise! Well, here's Chapter One of 'Grief and Grace'! Might be slightly AU, but not too badly.

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**Year 2933 of the Third Age:**

Legolas surveyed the woodlands around him from his perch atop a high pine tree, and smiled as the slightly chilly wind ruffled his long, silvery gold hair. One of the tree's branches was wound around his ankle, as the gentle, slumbering giants had a tendency to be exceptionally paranoid about him. He had long been favored by all things green and growing, as well as by all things four-footed and furry. He looked over at his companion, and grinned when he saw her dark head beginning to descend. She'd been patrolling for a little over two years now, as she had demanded to do something more for her people then sitting around practicing needlework.

"Slow down, Arwen! Your brothers will never forgive me if I bring you home battered and broken!" He called good-naturedly, beginning his own rapid descent, the branch withdrawing as the tree started scolding him. _Honestly!_ He was an Elf, for the love of Elbereth, and Elves simply didn't fall out of trees. _Especially_ not wood-elves such as himself.

"Jealous, are you?" She called back, already halfway down. "You're just mad because I'm faster!"

"We'll see." Legolas murmured, took a step to the left, and let himself freefall. Arwen's scream rang through the forest as he fell and fell, and he knew she was going to kill him for this later. Then, as suddenly as his fall had started, it stopped. Wrapped securely, yet gently, within a massive branch of the now-irate tree, he tried his damnedest to stifle his laughter when he heard Arwen's gasp from above him.

"Are you alright!?" She shouted, moving down the trunk with enough speed that she would have seemed nothing more than a blur to mortal eyes. She landed on the ground almost soundlessly and rushed to his side. "Legolas? Can you hear me?" She asked, her voice high and shrill, and he couldn't hold back his chuckles any longer.

"Fine, fine." He choked out, and her gray eyes narrowed.

"You…you…you _orc_!" She huffed indignantly as the tree released him and he landed softly on his feet. Still laughing, he brushed a few stray pine needles out of his hair.

"You shouldn't have challenged me."

"_Challenged you?_" She cried, hitting him in the arm. "I did no such thing!"

"Yes, you did! You might not have _said_ it exactly, but I—"

Legolas froze in mid-sentence, going rigid. Arwen looked around in alarm, knowing that he must have heard or felt something. His senses and instincts were much keener then hers, much keener than just about _anyone's_, and she trusted him. He'd been her instructor for the last six months while he'd been visiting her brothers in Imladris, and this was their second trip alone across the Misty Mountains. They were on the mountainside now, deep in the thick forests that sprawled across its surface almost endlessly, and which awaited the coming winter, the trees bearing leaves already long barren of any color. She knew that if there was any danger, he would be the first to know it. The trees and the animals spoke to him in ways that they didn't to any other.

"What is it, Legolas?" She asked quietly, carefully and silently stringing her bow and drawing an arrow.

His head was cocked to the side, his eyes distant and farseeing, and she once more became aware of the differences between them. He was older, yes, old enough to have fought in the Last Alliance and watch his grandfather die. And wood-elves in general were different from any other of their kind, feral and secretive as a whole. It had taken Arwen almost a literal age to win the Greenleaf's trust, and he truly trusted only a select few. Her brothers were the only exception. They had somehow gotten under the prince's defenses in less than three days, and they had been nigh inseparable ever since. They were in either Imladris or Mirkwood at any given time, but always together, barring patrols like this one.

"Flee up the tree." He said suddenly, and her lungs constricted with fear at the tone in his voice. He thought they were about to die.

"What is it?" She repeated, more frantically this time. He spun on her.

"Flee!" He ordered, and she wasn't looking at Legolas anymore, but the prince. She seemed glued to the ground, however, and couldn't move. Before she knew what was happening, he had grabbed her with speed even an Elf couldn't possibly possess and had thrown her over one shoulder. He flew up the tree again until he as almost back at the top, before putting her on a branch and telling the tree to restrain her. He removed her arrows as branches and vines tied her to the trunk, and she flung curses at him, which he ignored. So she tried a different approach.

"Legolas, saes! You cannot leave me here! I can help you!" She insisted, and the blank look in his emerald eyes stole the breath from her. ((please))

"No one can help us." He said in a deadpan voice, and she felt her eyes begin to sting. "We're too far from any other Elves or even any Men. I will die this day, but you…You are the Evenstar. You must not fade here, not now. You are meant for something greater. I can feel it."

"And you are not?" She asked, the first tears leaking down her cheeks. "Are you not the champion of Mirkwood, the beloved Greenleaf of your people? You have been touched by the Valar more than any Elf in Arda's history, except perhaps for my grandmother. This is not _your_ fate, either."

"Oh, but it must be." Legolas said, still appearing as if he were listening to something that only he could hear. "Because there's no way that it hasn't sensed the presence of Elf-flesh so near. And how blessed by the Valar am I if _this_ is our luck?" He inquired dryly, and he was scaring her worse than the creeping cold that she was beginning to feel on the edges of her psyche.

"What comes? Tell me at least that much." She said when he made to leave. He paused, halfway to the next branch, and his cat-green eyes seemed to pierce hers.

"Tell Elrohir and Elladan that my last thought was of them, and that I shall love them even in Mandos. Tell my father that he was always my idol, and that I am honored to have had the chance to call him Ada. Tell him that Ada'da Oropher greeted me at Mandos's Gates. Tell my mother that she shall always find me with her roses, and tell my sister that she shall always be my precious aewithen. Tell my brother to stay strong, tell him I said he will make a fine Crown Prince in my stead. Tell Glorfindel that his stories of Mandos had better be true, or I shall haunt him, I swear it! And you…I wish to thank you, pen-vuil, for being my friend. I am proud of you." ((dear one))

Then he was gone and she was sobbing raggedly, the reality of the situation hitting home. Legolas was positive that he was going to meet his death, and he was seldom wrong. As far as she knew, he had _never_ been wrong. And he still hadn't answered her question. She grew still as the forest did, as the common noises of birds and beasts died out into nothing. The cold was growing stronger by the second, and the fear in her heart grew with it. What came for them? What could be so horrible that one of the best warriors in Arda doubted his skill? From her vantage point, she could see the small clearing below perfectly, and could see Legolas waiting, his bow drawn.

"Be safe, son of Thranduil." She whispered, and then very nearly screamed when his opponent melted out of the shadows. It couldn't be…But it was. And it confirmed that Legolas had been right. He was going to die if he fought it. Which was something that no sane Elf would ever dream of, but that he seemed bent on doing.

"Look who we have here." The thing hissed, drawing its long sword. "The infamousss Princcce of Mirkwood. No other could sssmell ssso ssstrongly of Oropher and old, forgotten power. Long have I desssired to tassste of your flesssh. It ssseemsss my opportunity hasss come."

"We shall see, Witch-king." Legolas countered, his voice steady and not in the least revealing his fear, if he even felt any. Knowing Legolas, he did not. He more than likely saw it as his duty, and therefore welcomed Mandos with open, unhesitant arms.

"Yesss, we ssshall." It agreed, swinging its sword and advancing.

Legolas let the first arrow fly and it hit true, right above where the creature's wasted black heart lay. It staggered only slightly before continuing, and within a minute, it was littered with arrows. Legolas was undoubtedly the best archer in Middle Earth, and he was positively deadly with his twin blades. But she didn't know if either would help him now. Legolas kept retreating as the Ringwraith came towards him, until he finally ran out of arrows. His white-handled mithril knives, short swords really, sung as he drew them from their sheathes, and he stopped his backwards progress. His breathtaking, androgynous face was set and hard, his eyes cold and unfeeling.

Their blades met in a deafening clash of metal against metal, and Arwen winced as the sharp sound seemed to echo in her head. She wanted to close her eyes, she didn't want to see the fall of Legolas Thranduilion, but she forced herself to watch. She would not abandon him, not even in so small a way. His final glory would be witnessed and remembered. That is, if she herself even lived to see the sun set. Legolas twisted to the side a moment before the Lord of the Morgul's sword would have impaled him, and struck quickly. One of his blades sunk into the creature's arm and it shrieked, a high, awful sound that was much worse than the swords' meeting had been.

Legolas danced away immediately, blood as black as night staining the mithril blade. The Ringwraiths weren't _alive_, but they could bleed and feel pain as much as any creature that walked the land. And this one, their leader, was now furious. She doubted it was used to being wounded. It swung its massive sword in a wide arch, confident since Legolas was pinned between it and a tree. But Legolas shot straight up and into the branches when it attacked, and its blade sunk through the thick bark, almost coming out the other side. Arwen could hear the tree's screams in her mind, and knew that if she could, then Legolas must be in agony from its cries.

And she was right. He fell from the tree, clutching his head, although he did manage to keep a hold of his short swords and land on his feet like a cat. But it gave the Witch-king the few seconds that it needed. It lashed out in a blur and cut a deep wound across his lower back, and he fell to his knees. It bore down on him and he blocked the next swing, lifting his head, his silver-streaked hair falling back from his sculpted face. His eyes were burning with battle fury, and she knew then that the wound wouldn't slow him down. She doubted he could feel anything but rage, and wondered if that was a good thing or not.

Truthfully, she was astonished that he was even still breathing. No one, except for perhaps an Istari, a Ring Bearer, or Glorfindel, stood even a small chance of surviving an encounter with the Black Captain. But there Legolas was, once more on his feet with crimson blood flowing down his back, and he wasn't merely surviving. He was giving as good as he got, and more. Shocked and scared stiff, her fear began to slowly change to wonder and amazement. She had seen Legolas fight before, countless times, but never like _this_. He was brutal and merciless, quicker then two Elves put together, and he didn't seem to be tiring in the least. He truly was the last great Elvin Prince.

Not to say that it was by any means an easy fight. The Witch-king was not the Lord of the Nazgûl for nothing. He inflicted another serious wound to Legolas's calf, a third to his left arm, and a forth to his abdomen. They swirled and spun, parried and feinted, and it seemed to last an eternity to Arwen, who watched silently with baited breath. In fact, it seemed that the whole wood had stopped, the creatures within it seeming to sense the importance of the moment, and Arwen shivered even though the sun was blazing. How had it come to this? What had they done to merit a seemingly random meeting with the Captain of Despair?

Another unearthly shriek rent the air as Legolas shoved both blades into its chest, ripping sideways until he hit ribs and then yanking them back out viciously. The Witch-king fell for the first time, its knees hitting the grass, and Arwen sucked in a breath. This was unheard of! The Morgul Lord was considered invincible, but here she witnessed him nearly beaten. A second later, she wished she hadn't thought that, as it reared back up and lashed out in three lightning-quick strikes. Legolas blocked the first two, but the third pierced his thigh all the way through. Still he did not scream, even as he fell to his own knees beside the creature.

The trees all around them began howling, crying mournfully for someone or something to save their beloved prince, but the tree that held Arwen captive would not loosen its grip, even as its own voice rose and echoed its brothers' plea. Her eyes locked on Legolas, the next few seconds seemed to happen in slow motion. He dropped one bone-handled knife, his bare hand shooting out and disappearing into the creature's gaping chest a second before a black-armored fist slammed into his temple. He fell backwards limply, his eyes glazing and falling shut, and Arwen felt her hope die. Until she saw what he grasped tightly in his hand.

Legolas had ripped the shriveled, diseased heart straight from the mighty Witch-king's breast. The Nazgûl Lord stared at its removed organ in shock, and Arwen was caught between sheer disbelief at seeing the impossible, and utter awe at the fact one of her best friends had just defeated the blackest evil left in the land. And defeat it he had. No shriek left its foul lips that time; it simply crumpled to the ground and disappeared. But not without one final act of vengeance. The tree that it had nearly cleaved in half with its sword gave an unearthly bellow before it crashed to the ground, right on top of Legolas's still form.

The branches and vines holding her in place finally fell away, and when she hit the ground, she couldn't even recall her descent from the tree. Drawing her sword, for she knew that the thing was not truly dead and she could not shake the feeling of fear that it had lit within her fëa, she rushed to his side. Fearing the worst, she sobbed with relief when she saw the fallen giant's final deed. The massive tree had turned its branches into spear-like prongs, and had slowed the speed of its fall, stopping its full weight from crushing Legolas completely. He was still in bad condition, and was pinned to the earth by the tree, so it was quite a surprise when his eyes fluttered open.

"Arwen?" He gasped, his lean body convulsing. Tears pouring steadily down her face, she clutched his hand in hers.

"I'm here, ernilen-bain." She choked out, trying to calm herself so as not to worry him. His grip on her hand tightened as another spasm racked his form, and pounding feet running towards them through the brush had her on her feet again in seconds, another arrow drawn. Four gigantic wolves burst into the clearing, their eyes rolling wildly, and she breathed a sigh of relief. They loped over to Legolas immediately, and she knelt back down as they crowded around him, frantically sniffing at his exposed body and whining when he didn't rise. ((my beautiful prince))

"Sedho, melloneamin." Legolas whispered, and the wolves grew silent at once, sitting back on their flanks. The largest of them, a male named Sereg, had a coat as black as the Ringwraith's cloak, while his mate, Dagor, was whiter than freshly fallen snow. The other two, Akso and Dagnir, were both a dark, startling gray, almost silver, and all four had mismatched eyes of amber and indigo blue. ((Quiet, my friends))

"Legolas, I have to get you out of here. We can't camp out in the open like this, not with the danger increasing daily." She said softly, and her thoughts on Dagor's pale fur came back to her with a sudden jolt of horror. "Snow! Oh Valar, what are we to do? Snow will block the passes within a week's time! We would have been safely in Mirkwood by then, but with you injured like I believe you to be, we'll never make it! We have to signal for help somehow, we have to—" Legolas cut her babbling short.

"Iston hen." He murmured in his lyrical voice, his eyes still slightly cloudy. Worried, as she knew his restorative powers were better than most, she again fought down her rising panic. ((I know this))

"Why aren't you healing?" She demanded, starting to claw at the thick wood in an effort to free him. The wolves caught on quickly, and they started working on unearthing the sunken branches as well.

"You must be in shock." He replied, obviously fighting to stay conscious. "You know why, as you know what I fought. And Arwen, if I…you must…" He trailed off, and when he coughed, bright red Elvin blood splattered on his lips, glowing faintly with his light.

His words drew her up short, and she froze as realization washed over her. How could she not have remembered? He had been wounded by the blade of the Black Captain of Morgul, the High Lord of the Nazgûl. He was dying, becoming a wraith himself. Her blood turning to ice, she felt guilt swamp her. If she had not insisted on him taking her on this patrol, if he had gone alone as he had originally planned to, she knew he could have fled too swiftly for even the Witch-king to have caught him. But he had known she couldn't keep up, and he was dying now because he had been willing to forfeit his life for hers, to keep her safe.

"No." She uttered, her words almost to low for even Elvin ears to hear. Then louder, stronger, "No! I will _not_ lose you to darkness! Our people could not bear the loss; _I_ could not bear the loss! And what of my brothers? They would fade from grief should your light be extinguished!" The mention of the twins had his eyes sparking momentarily, and two words, full of raw feeling and desperation, escaped his lips before his eyes fell shut in unnatural sleep.

"Elladan…Elrohir."

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Please review!!


	2. Grief and Grace Pt 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

**Author's Note:** This is just a story I couldn't help writing, but to all of you who are reading 'Unexpected', don't worry. This won't be interfering with that, I promise! Well, here's Chapter One of 'Grief and Grace'! Might be slightly AU, but not too badly.

**Responses to my lovely reviewers: Goddess Of the Fallen**, (grovels at your feet) You are just the best!!!!** short arse**, oooh, thanks for reviewing this one! love ya!** Psi**, thanks, as usual!** hikaris**, here's more! lol **BButtercup**, thank you so much! **Sunn-Kissed**, well, see, it's just that I think he deserves some praise, and in an entirely un-orlando-bloom way (nothing against him, though). I mean, he is the last Elvin prince, and there had to be a reason that he was chosen for the Quest. I'm glad you liked it mostly, and I'll try to tone it down a bit, but not too much! :) **Icy Flame,** thanks! I'm really happy you like it! and legolas/haldir…yum! **Elandili**, thank you!!!! **Setrinan**, thanks so much!! **acuamaine**, no need to beg! here you go! lol

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_It's quite odd_, Glorfindel thought as he hurriedly mounted Asfaloth, _how very quickly your entire life can be flipped upside down. _Everything had gone fine during the mid-day meal at first, everyone from Elrond to the kitchen maids laughing and singing happily as they'd taken a break from preparing for the winter celebrations that were to be held in five days time. That was until the twins had literally fallen out of their thrones, landing hard on the marble floor as their gray eyes had turned completely silver, shining like mithril. Both had grabbed their heads, moaning in pain and dislodging their circlets, while everything had come to a sudden, stunned standstill.

"What evil is this?" Glorfindel had exclaimed, leaping from his own high-backed chair and falling to the ground beside them. Elrond and Erestor had been a second behind him, and all three had exchanged dire looks before the twins had begun flinging out words in a disjointed, frightening pattern.

"No, you mustn't…"

"You cannot fight it…"

"Saes, no, astalder…" Strangled cries had left their throats then, and phantom bloodstains had appeared on their lower backs. Understanding had dawned on their elders, and they'd been able to do nothing but watch with wide, dismayed eyes and sinking hearts. ((please)) ((valiant one))

"It will kill you…"

"Take her and flee, a'maelamin…" Their suspicions all but confirmed at those words, Glorfindel had felt a heavy veil of melancholy fall over him. They'd obviously been connected to Legolas, feeling what he felt, seeing what he saw. Elrond had sucked in a sharp breath beside him, and he'd known that his friend had come to the same conclusions, one of which stood out in his mind brighter than any other. The mentioned female was Arwen. ((beloved))

"Gods, no…" The twins had bent double, grasping their calves that time and only staying upright due to their elders' firm grasps. The next affected body part had been their left arms, shortly followed by their abdomens, and Elrond's patience had snapped under the anxiety engulfing him.

"What does he face!?" He'd demanded of his sons, shaking Elrohir by the shoulders as imagined scenarios involving his precious daughter dead had filled his mind. When he'd received no response but a hoarse moan, he'd repeated himself, his voice turning slightly hysterical and completely unlike his usually unshakeable timbre. "_What does he face!?_" The shouted inquiry had finally seemed to reach his sons, but their simultaneous answer had caused pandemonium to break loose instantly all over the hall.

"The Witch-king of Angmar!"

"_What!?_" Glorfindel had shouted, sorrowful words of lamenting already blooming in his head. Cursing and crying, Glorfindel had raged inside his mind. Was he truly reborn only to experience the death of another Elvin royal that he cherished? What cruel trick of fate was this? Then the twins' hands had gone to their thighs, and more of the phantom blood had sprung up through their leggings and robes. True fear had crossed their identical faces then, before it gave away to relief and joy.

"He has done it! Cund-min has defeated the Morgul Lord!" They had exclaimed joyfully, their words ringing through the hall and shocking the gathered Elves more than they had already. ((Our prince))

But then their faces had fallen again, and they'd very nearly passed out, their eyes bleeding back to stormy gray. They were incoherent for minutes afterwards and barely able to stand. And now, now, they were riding out from Imladris at full speed, their horses sensing their urgency and almost flying, their silver and gray hooves barely touching the earth. The twins were in the lead, their eyes wild and crazed, their bond to the prince drawing them forward unerringly. Their long raven hair flew out behind them, the silken strands tangling and untangling in the wind, their fingers wrapped tightly in their steeds' manes. But for all their speed, Glorfindel could see no hope.

It was a two-week ride to Mirkwood, and Legolas and Arwen would be at least halfway through already. Which meant they were five days from them if they kept the horses topped out the entire way, which they couldn't possibly do. Even _their_ horses' endurance wasn't that great. Convincing the twins of that was probably going to be the most difficult task of his life, he thought grimly. Looking over the company, he shook his head. Elrond had demanded to come, so Erestor was staying behind to run Imladris during his absence. It would be hard to convince _him_, too. The Elf got completely irrational regarding all things Arwen, but then again, most of them did.

Blanking his mind, Glorfindel knew only the wind rushing past him for hours, knew only that the trees were thickening and the sun setting. The latter brought him to full awareness again, and he knew that they would need to make camp soon. The forest was too dense to let in much moonlight, and even Elves needed some light to see, let alone their horses. Drawing up to meet the twins, he motioned to Elladan to stop. He was ignored. Trying again, that time with Elrohir, he felt his patience trickling away as he was ignored. _Again_. Taking an arrow out of his quiver, he leaned over and whapped the elder twin with it hard on the arm.

"_What!?_" Elladan snapped, stopping so suddenly and so quickly that his mount bucked and spun in order to keep itself and its rider from falling. The rest of the company slowed, the fifteen other Elves with them softly calling their own horses to a halt.

"We must make camp." Glorfindel said, and when the twins' eyes narrowed and they opened their mouths to refuse, he continued. "You know that we must. We will never reach him before he is taken by shadow if we kill our horses the first day out! We will fly as soon as the vása crests the horizon, I swear it." ((sun))

"Do you not understand?" Elrohir asked in a ragged, strained voice that made Glorfindel's heart clench. "We can _feel_ him. We can feel his agony and despair; we can hear his fëa crying out for us."

"Make camp." Elladan intoned, surprising them all. Elrohir turned to him, pure rage glossing his features before their eyes met. Then he seemed to calm, although both still looked utterly wretched.

"Yes. Make camp." Elrohir agreed, and Glorfindel started to question them before changing his mind and deciding to simply thank the Valar for small favors. He would worry about their easy acceptance later.

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"Thalionen, please wake up!" Arwen begged, shaking her friend by the shoulders. "Saes, you must!" ((My champion/hero)) ((Please))

Legolas didn't respond, of course, he hadn't in what felt like forever. She and his wolves had dug him out from underneath the tree, and they had stayed with him while she'd found shelter. Luck seemed to be with her, and she'd found a fissure in the side of a mountain that opened up into a branching, underground cave. She had scouted it carefully after calling Akso to her side, and she hadn't seen any evidence of other life living within it. Not recently, anyway. Thanking the Valar for good fortune, she'd crafted a litter and went back for her friend. It had taken hours to drag him to the cave even with her strength, but they'd finally made it, much to her relief.

That relief had been short-lived, however, when she had seen the extent of his wounds. They'd already been infected, and were swollen horribly. She'd seen him receive worse wounds, but none had ever reacted that way afterwards. Damning the Witch-king with every breath, she had spent the last few hours in a healing trance, doing all she could for him. She knew in her very bones, however, that it wasn't enough. Her friend was dying, she could see it, smell it, _sense_ it. He was changing, the poison of the Black Captain's blade twisting his spirit even as she watched helplessly. Sitting at his side, his limp, cold hand wrapped tightly in hers, she felt her hope leaving her.

"Saes, Legolas! You must fight it! You must not die; you must not leave this world! I know this, _I know it_. Goheno nin, goheno nin…" She whispered over and over, her heart breaking farther every time that his breathing faltered and nearly died out. ((Please)) ((Forgive me, forgive me…))

"Avaro naeth, gwathel." Legolas's voice nearly caused her to come out of her skin. ((Don't worry, /sworn/ sister.))

"Legolas!" She cried, tears welling up in her throat when she saw his forest-green eyes clear and untainted. "Oh, thank Ilúvatar! Manen le, pen-bain? How do you feel?" ((How are you, beautiful one?))

"Like I was chewed up by a dragon and spit back out." Legolas said, those glorious eyes sparkling with mirth. Then they turned serious. "How bad is it, Arwen? Truthfully." She took a deep breath, steeling herself and trying to view his injuries as those of any other Elf, and not one of her dearest friends.

"None would be too dangerous if they had been made from a different sword." She said, her eyelids falling closed in sorrow. "Even if it had only been your calf, arm and back, I would not be so worried. But the wound on your abdomen is festering much too quickly, and your thigh…The poison from both went too deep for your natural resistance to stand a chance. I've tried to stop it, but—"

"Say no more." He cut her off gently, grimacing as another wave of pain hit him. "I understand. Do not forget what I said in the tree. Do not forget my farewells…"

And then his eyes glazed again, and to her horror, fell shut. He was still breathing, though, his chest rising and falling erratically, and she somehow stopped herself from breaking into a fresh round of tears. There were things she had to do, things to keep them alive until help came. Her only worry was that that help would take too long. No one would even know that they were missing for another week, when they didn't show up in Mirkwood. And it would be almost another week before they had any chance of being found. Legolas would not last that long, she knew that. But she couldn't travel with him either.

They would be easy prey out in the open forest. They wouldn't be in danger from the woodland creatures, but there were still orcs and wild men to be concerned about. Not to mention that they were close enough to Mirkwood to have to watch out for spiders. Rising to her feet, she began her work. The first thing she did was gather dead branches for firewood, to keep the cold away. They usually wouldn't have bothered unless they were cooking game, as the chilly air did not bother their kind, but with Legolas wounded and so cold already…She did not want to take any chances. Soon enough she had a good-sized pile at the cave mouth, and she began her other tasks.

There was enough moonlight outside for her to find a few herbs that would help her in dressing his wounds, a few more that would lessen his pain, and she weaved a quick, simple basket from the sparse patches of dry, dying grass. Placing the herbs inside it, she made another basket, but that one she coated with waterproof oil from their packs. She had brought it for exactly such an occasion, although she'd had no idea just how bad that occasion would be. Going outside and expanding her senses over the immediate area, she was dismayed when she could hear no trickling water. She would have to go and get some, then.

"Sereg! Akso!" She called, and both wolves loped over to her from where they'd been laying with their mates in a circle of warm fur around Legolas. Dropping into a crouch beside them, she scratched behind their ears as she spoke. They didn't like very many Elves, but they accepted those that Legolas trusted, and she felt honored every time that the great beasts let her touch them. "I must go for water, for I hear none near us. If you will come with me, Akso, Sereg and the others could stay here to guard our prince."

They agreed with her without any fuss, recognizing the need for fresh water. Sereg trotted back to Legolas's side, and Akso sat back on his haunches and watched her as she quickly made several more baskets, as many as she could carry. She didn't know when she would be able to leave again, and needed all of the life giving fluid that she could get until the early snow began falling. Coating each of the new baskets, she barely had enough oil, and thanked Eru that she'd remembered to bring any at all. She truly hadn't thought one of them would be wounded so severely on a routine patrol. Getting to her feet again, she went inside the cave.

"Legolas?" She queried, and when she received no response, she bent down beside him. "I'm going to find water; Akso's going with me. I shouldn't be overly long." She brushed a mithril-streaked golden lock off of his face, tucking it behind one delicately pointed ear. "I will find a way to help you. Someway, somehow, I will find a way. It is not your time to die, Legolas Thranduilion. Idho mae." And then she was gone, strapping her bow to her back and picking up her baskets, beginning her hunt for water with the dark gray wolf on her heels. ((Rest well.))

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Elladan and Elrohir had demanded the first watch, saying that they would not be able to find any rest that night anyway. After many suspicious looks from Glorfindel, their request had finally been granted by their father, who was already pale and drawn from his constant worry over Arwen. He cared for Legolas as well, and he knew how much the prince meant to the twins, but their sister was his jewel since their mother had sailed. And they thought of her, too, thought of her out there on her own with a single warrior that was wounded. A single warrior that they both loved, that they were bonded to. As Elvish twins, they shared one fëa and one lover.

The only exception to that rule was their father and his twin, Elros, and only because Elros had become mortal and severed their fëa in two. He had returned part of his half to his twin so that Elrond wouldn't fade, but Elladan and Elrohir knew that they would never be able to do the same. The thought of life without each other was absurd and unthinkable. But the thought of losing Legolas was unbearable. They knew that they would fade from grief if he passed into the Halls of Mandos as sure as they knew that the flowers would bloom again in the spring. He was their sun, their hope, their love and their life. He was everything.

The Mirkwood Prince was barely more than three centuries older than they were, which was nothing, really. The only thing that had made him any different from them was that his few extra years had placed him in the War of the Last Alliance. They had been born right after, whereas he had been born right before. By the time the War was fought, though, he had been of age and had fought with the rest of his people. He had also watched a third of them die. They had wondered over the blankness in his eyes sometimes, and they'd had to sing him back from grief more times than they could count before their bonding over six centuries ago.

But they hadn't really understood until their mother had been taken. Then the weight of grief had become a very familiar burden to them. And who had sung them back? Who had sat with them night after night, whispering soothing words in ancient Teleri until their tears had stopped? Who had helped them hunt down the orcs responsible until none still breathed? Legolas. There was a light about him, a furious, burning flame unlike any they had seen before. Even the land seemed to take notice, and the prince had stronger ties with nature then Erestor himself. Elves all over Arda sung of his beauty and skill, but none loved him like they did.

"Elladan?" Elrohir called softly, jarring his brother from his thoughts. "Are you ready?"

"Yes." Elladan whispered back, and they rose to their feet slowly and silently.

The rest of the camp was sleeping, their open, glazed eyes and even breathing proof of that. Even Glorfindel had eventually drifted off, which was a blessing in their eyes. Sneaking away from him was never easy. They gathered up their packs and bedrolls, and made for the clearing where their horses were grazing. They knew the horses needed to rest, and they knew that their companions needed to rest. But they could not. So two hours after midnight found them creeping away, walking their mounts as they would do until dawn. Brushing a hand through his horse's mane when they were almost a league from their camp, Elladan froze when he heard something.

"Do you hear that? It sounds almost like a—"

The word '_horse_' died on his lips as one came out of the darkness before them, from between two massive trees. They recognized the mare instantly, and marveled at the fact that she seemed to have followed them from Imladris. It was Legolas's steed, one that he'd had for over two centuries. She was beautiful and strong, much like their prince, except where he was gold and silver, she was midnight and charcoal. Her coat was like a starless night sky, except for her legs from the knees down and her mane, both of which were a smoky silver-gray. Her name was Moriára, Black Dawn, and no other name would have suited her better.

"I almost feel as if we should have expected this." Elrohir stated dryly as the mare slid up beside them, her every movement full of power and grace. She immediately started tugging on their sleeves and throwing her head back, whinnying and stamping her hooves impatiently.

"I think she wants us to mount her." Elladan commented with just a bit of fascination.

The mare rarely let anyone besides the prince so much as touch her, even them, but now she wished for them to get on her back, which was unheard of. He could clearly recall the time that Legolas's friend, Oronindo, had boasted that he could make her let him sit upon her back. Legolas and the twins had tried to tell him that they doubted he could _make_ Moriára do _anything_, but he hadn't listened. It had been quite amusing for all watching to see the Elf get thrown off after about three seconds, landing headfirst in the wet mud by the lake. It had been even more amusing when she'd charged him moments later, and he'd run into the lake to escape, screaming his head off and telling Legolas to call her back.

"I, for one, don't want her angry, so hurry up and get on." Elrohir replied, obviously remembering the same incident.

They both mounted cautiously, neither wanting to get thrown if she suddenly changed her mind, which she was wont to do. She stayed perfectly still, though, and Elrohir curled his fingers around her mane carefully while Elladan settled behind him, his arms going around his twin's waist as he wrapped his own fingers in the dark gray hair. She started out at a good, steady speed, not too fast for the other worn-out horses, but not as slow as they'd been moving on foot, either. She seemed to know which direction to go, as if she knew as well as they which direction their prince lay in. And so began their journey to find their mallen-lass and their sister. ((golden-leaf))

Their father and Glorfindel would just have to forgive them for leaving like thieves in the night. They had asked Asfaloth to keep watch in their stead, and he could sense any approaching danger as well as they. And they could not stay still for the duration of an entire night while knowing that their bonded lay bleeding and dying, cold and alone but for their baby sister, if she was even still alive. They had the healing hands of their father, and they were two instead of one, at least in bodies and power. If they could reach him before he gave in to the shadow, then there was still hope. If they could not, then neither would live out the next full moon without him.

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Well, there you go! Updates may be a little bit apart, as I'm dedicated to another story at the moment, and I know that if I let this interfere with 'Unexpected', my reviewers might revolt. So stay patient, please! I promise that I'll finish. :) PLEASE REVIEW!!!!


	3. Grief and Grace Pt 3

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

**Author's Note:** 'Adar' means 'father', and 'elleth' means 'she-elf'. Just letting you know since they're the only things not translated in this chapter.

**Responses to Reviewers: tkmoore**, thanks, dear, you're the best! :P **morphed**, you liked it! you really liked it! (swoons) I feel so special! lol **Daeomae**, thank you, and sorry it took so long! **Sunn-Kissed**, I've gathered the Elvish from all over the place, lol. **Goddess Of the Fallen**, thanks! hope you like this one, too! **kel**, thanks, and as you wish! **Psi**, well, I didn't stop 'Unexpected', now did I? lol :) **satangurl41**, thanks so much! glad you do! **Setrinan**, thank you!!!! **short arse**, the 'Encyclopedia of Arda' is good, and so are the 'Annals of Arda'. Just google 'em, lol. :) **Melannen Halfelven**, thank you! and I think there were too many names in that pairing for my poor, over-used brain to handle right now. check back later, lol. **tonianne**, thank you so much!! **scotty-lass**, wow, thanks! hope you like this part as well! **harry-fanfic-reader**, glad I didn't give you reason to revolt then, lol! **VirginGoddess**, me and you, my dear, think a whole lot alike. (smooches to you) **lgstarbaby07**, thank you!! **legosgurl**, I'm updating, I'm updating! lol **Jaylen**, thanks, I'm glad you liked it! I love L/twins, too, as you can tell, lol.

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Arwen picked her way through the thick underbrush by the good-sized stream that she'd found, convinced that the Valar was out to get her after the third deep scratch bloomed across her cheek. As if wrestling her makeshift bowls through the brambles with her wasn't daunting enough. She sincerely hoped there was another way to leave the creek, or she'd never get her water out without spilling it all. About a second away from screaming in a very unelleth-like way, she growled and unsheathed her sword. She loved the earth, she loved plants, but these thorns were about to die. Hacking at them brutally, she felt her weariness catching up with her.

She hadn't slept at all since Legolas had been wounded, her every thought on him most of the time. He was one of her very best friends, her sworn brother and kin through his ties with the twins, and she loved him enough that she knew she would fade if he died, for she had no bonded of her own to keep her in her spirit's shell. Only Legolas and the twins had saved her after her mother's departure, and there would be no twins to save her from his, because they would follow him faster than she would. And they were not the only ones that would fade with his passing, fade or sail for Valinor, because he was loved widely and by many.

She doubted that his farewells would tide over his family, and such a tragic loss might drive Thranduil to lead his people to the sea and beyond the western horizon to the promised lands. They would be lucky if his brother didn't fade, as well as all of his guards, who were tied to him as all the guards of royalty are bound to those that they serve. Then there were Haldir and his brothers, each of whom adored Legolas and none of which had yet been bonded, as well as all of his other friends scattered throughout the Realms. And then, for each who faded or passed for love of him, more would follow for love of _them_ until few were left to dot these cursed shores.

_If only the twins had been with us,_ she thought morosely. They were as strong at healing as their father, and they could call Legolas back from shadow if anyone could, especially being bonded to him. Then, thoughts of binding swirling through her head, she nearly lost a hold of her sword. Sweet Valar, what if Legolas _did_ become a wraith? What would become of her darling brothers then? Would it change them, too? Would she lose all three to evil? _No! No, I will not!_ She screamed internally, and a final, savage swing had her breaking through the last of the stabbing vines, revealing that she'd stepped out onto a rocky beach.

And right into a group of sleeping orcs.

_Oh, this truly cannot be happening_, she thought in a distant, shocked way. It all became too much, much too much, and she started laughing. It was mildly quiet at first, then grew louder and louder until the orcs were leaping to their feet only to stop and stare at her in shock of their own. Apparently, they weren't awoken by hysterical elf maidens very often. Putting one hand against a tree, her bowls falling to the gravel, she clutched at her stomach, laughter shaking her willowy frame. What in Arda's name was _wrong_ with her? There were _orcs_, five of them, less than ten feet from her, and there she was, giggling insanely.

Her father would have a stroke if he could see it.

"Well, well." One of the orcs started after shaking its head, jarring its small amount of wits around into some sort of order that only it understood. "Lookie what we—"

"Got here, boys." She finished for him, having heard that line so many times from one or another of the foul things that it was ingrained into memory. "A pretty little elf-girl all alone in the big, bad woods."

Suddenly, it wasn't funny anymore as her mother's face flashed through her mind. And she knew then, that if she saw that she couldn't win, she would make them kill her. She wouldn't become like them. She refused to. And it dawned on her how Legolas must feel. Something shifted within her then, some sense of understanding, and fury followed it. A boot dagger was in her hand and being thrown the short distance a moment later, and before the orcs could so much as shout, it was stuck deep into the face of the one closest. Then, knowing hand-to-hand combat with them would be unwise, she took to the trees, sheathing her sword and stringing her bow with long practice as she did so.

The twins and Legolas's voices ran through her mind as she notched her first arrow, for they had trained her and it always seemed like they were still right there, just behind her shoulder, even when they were leagues away. '_Slow_ _your breathing…good, good…Now seek the quiet place inside you, sight and aim, and if you believe it will hit, it will hit by the Valar's grace…_' The twang of the bowstring seemed impossibly loud, and the small missile struck true, finding the far left creature's heart. She got another before the last two started swarming up the tree after her, and she climbed ever higher, knowing that if she jumped right then, they would as well.

And they would hit the ground first.

So she climbed, her bow slung across her back and still strung, and she swallowed the pride that rose within her when she saw how much faster than them she was. They climbed awkwardly while she flew up the trunk with the easy grace of all her kindred, but she didn't have time for boastful arrogance. Finally reaching the top, she took a deep breath and did the only thing she could. She jumped. But not down, no, because a fall from so high just might kill her, or at the very least hurt her badly. So she leapt to the side, springing like a mountain lion, for the closest tree. It was almost a twenty-foot jump, and she lost some height, but she _did_ make it.

Spinning as soon as she was safely perched on a thick branch, she had her bow drawn and another arrow flying within seconds, while the orcs were still looking up, as if they thought that she'd just disappeared. Her arrow embedded itself in one orc's forehead, but she wished that she could shoot two at a time like her brothers, or three like the prince, because the other apparently had more sense than she'd given it credit for, and it moved to the other side of the trunk quickly, using the gnarly wood as a shield. Cursing, she started a rapid descent, branches whipping past her and scratching at her, and she hit the ground hard enough to snap her teeth together.

She reached for another arrow only to find her quiver empty, and she turned to stare at it. What…Oh Elbereth, they had to have fallen out when she'd jumped, or during the climb down…Feet hitting the earth had her head flying back around, and she drew her sword as the large orc came at her slowly, warily. She had killed its comrades, and it was cautious, but not scared enough to flee. No, Elf-flesh was too much of a temptation for it, and she blocked the first swing, surprised when she could barely lift her arm. Her exhaustion was overwhelming her, and she knew, with a sick dread, that it was time. She would not be taken alive.

Gathering her courage, she waited for the next swing, and when it came, she made to drop her blade and step into it. And that's exactly what she did. But the blow never landed as a vicious snarl sounded a second before an enormous, growling ball of gray fur had the thing on the ground, ripping out its throat in a wide spray of blood. The orc never even had time to scream. Akso looked up with a bloody, grinning muzzle, thick black drops splattering on the gravel as he came towards her. She'd completely forgotten about the wolf. Kneeling beside him, she hugged him furiously, thanking him profusely for saving her life.

It took almost twenty minutes before she could gather the last of her strength and stand, collecting her bowls and filling each one diligently before finding a long pole and tying them each to it with a few strands of her hair. Testing it to make sure they would hold, although she knew they would considering how many times she'd made her own bowstrings as most warriors did, she carefully placed the pole across her shoulders and looked for a different way out. Half a mile down the creek, she found an old deer trail, and she thanked everyone she could name, from the maids at her father's house to obscure historical figures.

It took three hours, three long, agonizing hours, to reach the cave again, when it had only taken one on the trip out. She only barely got the water stored in a cool corner of the barren rock room, before she hit the ground hard and didn't get back up. Only very, very vaguely did she register Akso dragging her gently over to where Legolas lay on a pallet made of leaves and their cloaks, the crunching and rustling the only thing that gave it away. Then a warm, furry body curled up around hers, and she knew the other against her was her prince, because _that_ body felt feverish, then freezing, feverish, then freezing.

But then blackness ate everything, and she knew no more.

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The twins had not stopped in two days, their feet not even touching the ground when they switched horses, and it was beginning to catch up with them that night. Not that they cared. Moriára stayed swift and strong, and since their own steeds didn't have to carry them all the time, and were by no means weak themselves, they quickly recovered from the wear of that first day out. They made good time, excellent time really, so Elladan supposed it was only inevitable that they ran into some sort of trouble. Why it had to be a pack of skin-changers, he didn't know. Beorn and his ilk were all right, but many of their kind were wild, more animal than human.

And these were not bears, but bats, huge bats that were anything but friendly. They'd felt their approach only seconds before one had swooped down and knocked Elrohir from his horse. His brother had been back on his feet in seconds, twin swords in his hands, and Elladan had been beside him a moment later. At first, they hadn't known what they were, they'd just known they were hostile and hideous, and that the high-pitched noises they made were almost deafening, grating through their skulls like broken crystal. The first one to die startled them so badly when it changed into a Man that they nearly got themselves killed.

It took a lot to break their concentration, but that did it.

Even over twenty-eight hundred years of training hadn't prepared them for their swords sliding _in_ to a beast's heart and _out_ of a Man's. So it had taken a second or two to adjust. That's when the others had attacked, and there had been almost thirteen to begin with, but now they were down to four. They told the horses to run long before, so it was only them and the large, ugly bats under the thick, bare branches of the trees experiencing the first true brushes of winter. The mountaintops were already packed with snow, but it hadn't spread so far down, not yet. But they could smell it coming, fast and hard, and this fight had to end soon or they would be caught in it later.

They were back-to-back, a stance they had long favored, but they didn't need to see one another's faces or speak to know what the other was thinking. The next bat creature attacked, using its wings to bring it a bit off the ground and increase its speed, and Elladan raised a blade already long-coated in the creatures' blood. A very hairy, very disgusting head left that body, and a moment later, it was a longhaired, brown-eyed Man's. It just didn't seem right, somehow. Not that it mattered. They had attacked them, not the other way around. They were keeping them from their bonded, not the other way around.

And to reach Legolas, they would kill anything that stood in their way. _Anything_.

Or any_one_. But those were not productive thoughts, seeing as how Elrohir was slashing away at another of the things, so graceful and deadly that it made one stop and stare for a moment. Or maybe that was just Elladan. _But no, that couldn't be_, he argued with himself as one of the other's went airborne, higher than the last one. _Because Legolas looks at him the same. _If the thing had known anything about Elves, it never would have gone into the air like that, but it didn't, and the few seconds that it was up so high was just enough for Elladan to drop one sword, grab his bow, and let two arrows fly. Both lodged in the thing's chest, it screeched so loudly that Elladan was sure his head would explode, and the last one came for them.

Elrohir had already killed the one he'd been fighting, and he gave his twin a look that clearly said, '_This__one's mine. You already got seven_.' The last was made more potent by a small glare, and Elladan sighed. Legolas had started the counting game, and they'd laughed at first, but it really _was_ quite addicting. They'd told him it was childish in the beginning, and he'd told them that they were just boring, stuffy Rivendell Elves that wouldn't know what fun was if it bit them in the arse. Elladan could remember every second of that meeting, and suddenly he was seeing it as if he were there again, as if he were dreaming it while awake.

He was next to Elrohir, his body stiff and held regally just as Erestor had drilled into him, and he and his twin had been anything but happy. Because it was their first time in Greenwood the Great, they were little more than seventy-five, they hadn't wanted to come, and now they might have angered the prince. They hadn't wanted to meet the mighty King Thranduil, the king who held his lands, just like his father before him, without any Ring of Power, so great was his innate magic and his warriors' skill. The Greenwood had only just started to really repopulate itself, new elflings being born and older Elves moving from the Golden Wood or Imladris or from out in the wild, as some chose to live.

They had expected dreary lands still weighed down by grief and heartache, but they'd come upon a vivid, ancient forest so full of life and light that it had brought laughter bubbling from their throats before they'd checked themselves and donned neutral masks once more. Greenwood spanned miles upon miles of the oldest trees they had ever encountered, many so majestic and huge that twenty Elves couldn't have stood in a circle around one and clasped hands. Then they'd come to the palace, and met the feared Thranduil. And he had been just as scary as predicted. It wasn't that he was impolite or loud or insulting, but…

He reminded them of their grandmother.

The power around him had been suffocating, his eyes had been so very, very old, older even than they should have been, and with one glance, they'd known he'd seen into their fëas. Thranduil was indeed mighty; even mightier than Glorfindel, and that had impressed them as few things could, even then. But he had played the word games with them, the practiced court games, and it had made talking to him easier. But then…then they'd met his only son at the time, the Crown Prince of the Woodland Realm, the famed Greenleaf that had fought and killed scores at his father's side in the Battle of Dagorlad, and impressed just wasn't the right word.

His beauty had positively stunned them. Elrohir had very nearly fallen over, Elladan's not-so-steady hand the only thing keeping him upright, and the elder twin's other hand on the wall had been all that kept both of them from hitting the floor in a _most_ undignified way. They hadn't been used to seeing many light-haired Elves to begin with, having only been to Lothlórien once, but they had never seen an Elf more radiant or ethereal before or after, and knew they never would. He was perfect even among their kind, his face finely sculpted as if with infinite divine care, his namesake green eyes brighter than any emeralds could hope to be, his body lithe and lean and strong.

He carried himself with such effortless grace that it made even the old Elves of the court look clumsy, and his hair, which hit his waist and was braided through with green ribbons, was mostly gold the color of spun sunlight. But it shone with streaks of silver, Teleri silver, silver the color of the waves after sunset when so many stars shine upon them that they glow, or so the legends said. But they did not think of sunlight or starlight when they saw that multi-hued hair, they thought of the Light of the Valar, of Eru's eyes. They thought of everlasting love and eternal friendship.

And it had been utterly insane.

Because the fiery-spirited prince that had stormed into the room hadn't even glanced at them as he'd passed by, storming up to his father with barely-concealed rage flowing off of him like a physical wave. The nobles of the court had scattered out of his way, Elves much, much older than him retreating before those dangerous malachite eyes, and they'd been beyond entranced. He'd stopped before the throne, demanded to know why his sister was being banned from weapon's practice, and had looked nearly hostile enough to tackle his father out of that giant gold chair when he was told that she was too 'delicate and fragile'.

His voice going low and quiet, serious and very princely, he'd calmly told his father that if he didn't lift the ban, then he would teach her himself. Out in the forest. Without a guard. In the middle of the night on the bloody full moons if he didn't grow some sense. Appalled and slightly awed as the angelic, androgynous Elf-prince had spoken so threateningly to one that no one else would dare to, not a bit of fear evident anywhere about him, they'd waited for Thranduil to explode with that famous temper of his. And he'd looked, for a moment, as if he were going to, but the prince's eyes had narrowed into furious slits, the slightest hint of a glow beginning within them.

Then Thranduil had sighed deeply, relaxing once more, and had shaken his head wearily, his tawny hair rustling like a lion's mane around him. The prince had grinned then, knowing his father was beaten, and he'd turned, his eyes almost instantly meeting theirs. He looked stunned himself for a moment, before a brilliant smile had bloomed across those rose-red lips, and Elladan had been sure that he was going to faint. Because that bewitching smile somehow made him even more magnetic and dazzling, and that really shouldn't have been possible. It just wasn't fair. They'd never stood a chance against that so-rare smile.

"Elladan and Elrohir, I presume?" He'd asked formally, bowing his head for the brief amount of time that befit his station. "The renowned twins of Elrond Peredhil?" They'd frozen. Of course. He'd looked at them like that for the same reason that everyone else did. Because they were mirror images, nothing more.

"Yes, your highness." Elladan had replied, bowing low with his brother, his voice and tone and words the picture of etiquette, showing none of his disappointment.

"So…Do you want to come riding with us?" They hadn't known who 'us' was, and they hadn't known if spending time with the alluring prince was a very wise idea. But to refuse seemed impossible, the words dying before they'd made it past their lips. Instead, Elladan had barely managed to stall.

"Riding, your highness?" He'd asked as if he hadn't understood, and then Legolas had broken apart their molded views on propriety and civilized behavior. Elrond would later rue sending them to the Greenwood.

"Oh, do stop calling me that. I'm Legolas Greenleaf, Crown Prince of all you see, but you, you are the sons of Elrond, he who could have been High King, and are princes yourselves to our people whether your adar took the title or not. We are equals in my eyes, and I see no reason for courtly subterfuge. It is a game for the elders anyway, and I assure you that my home has more to offer than what is inside the palace walls." Then he'd tilted his head to the side, studied them with those beguiling eyes, and changed their world irrevocably. "And I wish to spend more time with you. I find you beautiful."

And they were trapped, caught, as easily as that, and Legolas didn't even know it. He was one of those spellbinding few that were vaguely aware of how magnificent they were, but not consciously, not really. He didn't see the heads turn everywhere he went, or hear the strangled exclamations when he'd pour a pitcher of water over his head to ward off the stifling summer heat just like everyone else did, causing his shirt to mold to him most appealingly. They'd only been there a week, but they fell harder each day for the sunlit, golden-skinned deity that had, for some blessed reason, decided to spend most of his time with them.

And it was that seventh day that he brought up the game that he and his friends had started playing when they patrolled the borders and came across orcs. He'd slowly, but surely, been drawing the twins from a world of scrolls and books and herbs to one of horses and hunting and heady wine, slowly been showing them that protocol and court weren't everything, slowly been showing them how different the wood-elves truly were from the rest of their kind on Arda. Everyday was an adventure, a glorious gift not to be wasted, and if there was nothing else to do on long, endless days, than nature was always there to remind of you of the simple beauty in things.

In Greenwood, the twins were learning what it truly meant to be of the Eldar, of Elvin kind. A whole new world opened up for them outside of their father and Erestor's strict, formal eyes, a world of colors and animals and constant new discoveries that made their hearts so light with joy at seeing the simple life within it all that tears of happiness and sadness had coursed down their faces when they'd realized what they'd been missing. They were learning to fully use their senses, to accept the fact that they were more than Half-elven and therefore very nearly true Elves, and they each had their own magic beyond healing, magic that Legolas awakened.

But this game…It had seemed so silly, so immature and inelegant, something that their father would disapprove of heartily. Really, _counting_ your kills? It was barbaric, and oddly like a child keeping tally of all the bugs it could squash in one day. And since Legolas had some strange power to make them say what they thought when they were around him instead of what they _should_ say, they'd told him so. That's when he'd called them stuffy and boring. And now, in this weird dream-vision-memory, Elladan watched him standing before them, worried they'd angered him, and wished he could take the words back even though he knew he couldn't.

"Hmph." Turning up his nose and dusting off immaculate court robes, Legolas pointed in the direction of the library and said with a smirk, "The dust and elleths are in there. Have a grand time, but I'm going on the half-naked hunt."

Now _that_ was one way to get their full attention. "_What!?_" Both twins exclaimed, images of Legolas half-naked dancing behind their eyelids.

"The half-naked hunt." Legolas repeated, his smirk turning into a full-on grin. "And I'd really rather you came. I've been trying to get you out of your clothes all week."

The twins simply didn't know what to say to that, not really being able to form anything, even a thought, coherently in the first place, not to mention that their jaws were resting comfortably on the floor. Had the prince _really_ just said that? If Erestor heard royalty talking like that, he would fall dead right then and there. Glorfindel would laugh, but Erestor would just _die_. Valar, so would _most_ Elves, except those of the woodland Realm, apparently. They were as silver-tongued and eloquent as anyone when they wished to be, but most saw no need within the borders of their kingdom, because they were a wild, fierce people and always had been.

"Elladan!" Who was that? It sounded like Elrohir, but his lips weren't moving, and…"_Elladan, saes!_" Snapping suddenly back to reality, Elladan found himself on the ground with his head pillowed in his frantic brother's bloody lap, the last of the skin-changers dead next to them, one of his twin's swords still in the Man's chest. ((please))

"Elrohir?" He choked out softly, and his twin sobbed raggedly.

"Oh, thank Manwë. You stopped breathing, El. You just stopped, and fell, and I had to kill that thing before I knew what was wrong, and…I thought you were dying!" That beloved voice was filled with panic, and Elladan pushed himself up and reversed their positions, cradling his brother to him tightly, rocking back and forth.

"It's alright, glassen, it's alright." He soothed, waiting for the other's shaking to subside. And he was shaking, too, memories of Legolas thick in his skull, and that didn't help Elrohir due to their twin-bond. "I was just remembering, though I've never had it happen like that before." ((my joy))

"We have to get moving again, muindor." Elrohir said after a moment, rising to his knees and looking at his twin through locks of raven hair. Those gray eyes were full of sorrow, such sorrow, and he knew that Elrohir saw the same in his. ((/blood/ brother))

"Maer." Elladan agreed, and took the outstretched hand that Elrohir offered once he'd gotten to his own feet. ((Yes))

"Something still bothers you." His twin stated once they were both up and dusted off, though they were still sticky and flaky with drying blood. Elladan glanced briefly up at the sky before answering.

"It is the same thing that bothers you, dear elf-knight." He said, whistling for the horses. Then his eyes met his twin's, and they spoke together, for both knew what he meant.

"Unad nuithana i nîre-guren nalú aderthad vín." No truer words had ever been spoken by Elf or Man, and the stars seemed to shine brighter for just a moment, one in particular shining brighter than all. ((Nothing will stop the weeping of my heart until our reunion.))

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I am SO sorry this chapter took so long to get up, but I've been insanely busy, what with 'Unexpected' and this thing called 'a job' that I'm experimenting with. And I did warn you it might be awhile, so please forgive me and **REVIEW**! Pretty, pretty please? (bats eyelashes and begs)


	4. Grief and Grace Pt 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

**Quick Note:** 'Adar' means 'father', 'Ada' means, basically, 'Dad', 'Edain' means 'Man' or 'human', and 'elleth' means 'she-elf'. Just letting you know since they're the only things not translated in this chapter.

**Author's Note: **The last lines in this chapter were stolen innocently from the movie, and the Quenya translations were stolen from one of my idols, Ilye. She gets full credit for those two sentences, and if (gasp, shock, die) she ever _reads_ this, then I would like to state now that I worship the ground her ElrohirxLegolas feet walk on. (kisses!)

**Responses to my lovely reviewers: morphed**, so…like the hunts, do you? lol, me too! **Sunday-Morning**, why yes, yes, I do, however did you guess? (snickers) I can't help it. I'm a complete perv, lol. **Sunn-Kissed**, yeah, I hate it when people make wolves all evil for no reason. And yes, it is slash. :) **Twilight Unicorn**, thanks! **Sesshyangel**, hey, I emailed you but I'm not sure you got it, so let me know! and thanks for the badass review! **VirginGoddess**, (looks around shiftily) Oh, yes, please do send Haldir…and strawberries…(drools) **legosgurl**, thanks! I'm really glad you liked it! **Fallen**, why do you _always_ make me blush like mad?? (blushing like mad) Gods, I do adore you and your reddening reviews!! **im no muggle**, (taps foot, still waiting for an update) Yeah, I liked that part, too, lol! **CrackingUp**, THANK YOU!!!!

Now, I do believe you're here to read…THIS!!!! (I've had too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Just ignore me, please.)

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Thranduil Oropherion, King of Eryn Galen, now known as Mirkwood and Taur-e-Ndaedelos, nearly gave his subjects a heart attack when he suddenly collapsed in the Hall of Fire. His wife, Isillinquë, and his youngest son, Ornutur, were at his side instantly, while his daughter, a pretty elleth that looked younger than Ornutur but was in fact quite a bit older, ran for the healer. Clutching at his head, the king knew none of that as pain engulfed him from head to toe, pain tainted with a foul shadow that chilled his blood, and he knew whose agony he was feeling. _No_, his mind screamed, _no! _Not Legolas, not his precious Greenleaf.

And suddenly, he saw it all. He saw the long days spent laughing and joking with the Evenstar as they hiked across the mountains, he saw the faked fall from a tree, he saw…He saw the Witch-king and his heart nearly stopped as Legolas stood and faced it with such selfless courage that it made Thranduil wish to weep. He saw the fight, the impossible, heroic fight, and he would have died of pride when his son, his young, beautiful son ripped that foul heart straight from the creature's chest if he hadn't been so terrified. He couldn't remember having been afraid since his father's death, but he was petrified with pure fear then.

Then the world spun and the pain was back, the soul-eating torment, and he couldn't understand how his son was still sane as he felt the full effect of that black poison. Understanding nearly crushed him, his mind screaming out the obvious, and he knew he wouldn't survive the corruption of his son's bright, unblemished spirit. But there…what was that? Far underneath the swirling darkness, a spot of light shone through like a beacon, and he felt like crowing with joy when he saw that his son had somehow retreated into himself, constructing barriers of pure light around his fëa, letting the twisted perversion eat at his body and mind, but not his soul, never his soul.

And then Thranduil was back in the Hall of Fire, Elvin shouts ringing all around him as light footsteps shuffled back and forth hurriedly, and someone was poking at his eyelids in a most annoying fashion. He'd really need to speak to them about proper respect at some less pressing time, and…Wait, why were his eyes closed in the first place? Opening them slowly, he met the startled gaze of his head healer and tried to speak, but his throat was raw, as if he'd been screaming. Everything rushed back and he struggled to rise, growling at the healer when she tried to hold him down. Throwing the elleth's hands off, his son's replaced them.

"Ada, no! You need to rest, you just collapsed, and—"

"Release me! I must go to him, I have to leave now, make yourself useful and get the guards ready to ride, I—"

"Go to who, meleth-nín?" His wife asked, and something in her eyes said that she already knew, because he could feel her grief already rising like a scalding wave. ((my love))

He kept the story short and to the point, and every Elf in the Hall was so silent at the end that his daughter, Elenhísë, made a small noise that actually echoed, before her blue eyes rolled back and she fainted, her brother catching her before she could hit the ground. Isillinquë was backing away slowly on her hands and knees until she'd reached the corner, and she was huddled there in a small ball, her ladies-in-waiting trying to coax her out to no avail. Thranduil stood and went to her, scooping her up easily and sweeping from the room, barked orders to get the horses out to the front gate and supplies for a long, hard ride ready all that he said before disappearing.

He took her to their chambers, murmuring softly to her the whole way, until he kicked open the doors and strode across the parlor into their bedroom, laying her on the soft furs gently. Her eyes were vacant and unseeing, and he knew that she was lost in memories of their beloved son. His heart was already so wrenched that it felt dry and crumbling, and he couldn't bear to see her in such pain, or to know that his darling Greenleaf was suffering a fate much worse than death. Brushing a lock of silver hair back off of her face, he kissed her petal-pink lips softly before rising and throwing one last glance back over his shoulder at her.

"I will find him, nin bellas, and I will bring him back to you." It wasn't until he was out the doors and closing them firmly behind him that he whispered brokenly, "One way or the other." ((my strength))

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Ornutur couldn't believe it. His brother had always had a knack for getting into trouble, but this topped the list by far. Fighting the Witch-king? Was he _insane_? Ornutur knew as well as all of their people that he and Legolas were different enough to almost be complete opposites, even though they _did_ look a little bit like each other. But Legolas was brave and fast and strong, respected and praised and brilliant. Ornutur was just…there, with his books and scrolls and 'outrageous' ideas. Legolas was the quiet one, the commanding one, the understanding one, the one full of joy at everything that he saw around him.

And he was the only one that would really listen to Ornutur's dreams of peace with the dwarves, of his desire to spend more time around the Edain, of his far-fetched hopes at wooing the Evenstar as Legolas had wooed her brothers. He had grown up around the twins and loved them almost as much as he did Legolas, because they were rarely apart for any true length of time, and had been bound long before his birth. The union of the princes of two of their greatest Realms had been long celebrated, and he'd heard endless tales about the festivities and antics of those that had attended, which had been pretty much everyone, even those of the Golden Wood.

Galadriel and Celeborn had both been thrilled when they'd heard of their grandsons' imminent binding, and had come to the Greenwood for the ceremony with a large part of their people. Most of Imladris had come as well, and Ornutur had found himself wishing many times that he could have seen such a grand gathering, that he could have seen the full-force of the joy in his brother's eyes that appeared every time he so much as glanced at or thought of the Peredhil twins. So it was not surprising that his thoughts went to them as he hurriedly threw a pack together, clothes and supplies being tossed in carelessly.

Did they know? Did they know that their bonded was out in the mountains, hurt and dying? That last word knifed through him, leaving actual physical pain behind, and something within him seemed to sink. With a jolt, he realized what was happening, and ran over to the large, polished mirror in the corner. _Sweet Valar_, was all he could think as he watched a strip of his hair becoming lighter and lighter until it was almost gray, as he watched the spark in his eyes growing dimmer even as he stared, and the tiniest hint of exhaustion creeped into his bones. His aching for his brother grew ever keener, and he clutched at his chest as a sudden, sharp pain blossomed.

He was fading.

Stumbling back from the mirror, a sob rising in his throat, he realized what his subconscious already knew. Legolas was dying, truly dying, and he would die with him. This wasn't just another 'spot of trouble'. This wasn't a dream or a nightmare or a vision. His brother was gone, lost somewhere on the face of those Valar-forsaken mountains, and he was being eaten and consumed by shadow as Ornutur worried over a few gray hairs and a little pain. Mentally slapping himself, he threw the last of his things together, grabbed his weapons, and headed out the door. He'd only made it two feet before a silver blur was crashing into him and nearly knocking him over.

"Elenhísë!" He cried when he recognized his sister, but she clamped a hand over his mouth and shoved him back into his room, shutting the door firmly behind her. Her eyes were wild and crazed and somewhat dead, and he saw her own spark dying, the sky-blue shade of her irises dulling to an icy almost-white that resembled a blind human's. Seeing her in such a way only intensified his own grief, but he knew he had to push it into the background for now or he'd be useless, and he was tired of being useless.

"I'm going with you." She stated, and he shook his head.

"You heard what Ada said." He reminded her. "Aren't you still supposed to be with the healer anyway?"

"I don't need a healer!" She exclaimed, and pushed past him, heading for his weapons rack.

"What in Nessa's name are you _doing_?"

"I'm going with you." She repeated, glaring at him for all she was worth. It was a strong glare, too, the glare of the princess, not the sister.

"Ada said—"

"I know what Ada said!" She snapped, and he closed his lips tightly, his own glare forming. "And I don't _care_. I'll be damned if I let you go out looking for them without me! He's _my_ brother, too, if you'd care to recall, and Arwen is my best friend!"

And then, just like that, she crumpled to the floor, sparkling tears racing down her cheeks, which seemed to be a bit more hollow than usual. He went to her side and dropped down next to her, gathering her up to him and swaying gently, cooing soft words until her tears had stopped. She most resembled their mother, her hair the same shade of pure Teleri silver and her nose and lips the identical replicas. Ornutur had the golden hair of his father, while Legolas possessed a rare mix of both. She was precious to them all, and to see her in such pain made his heart clench and his own tears rise. Shoving them down, he let out a shaky breath.

"Alright."

Her head snapped up. "What?"

"I said alright. You can come. But hide your hair and keep your head down, at least until we're out of Mirkwood and he won't want to waste the guards to send you back."

"Ooooh! Diola lle!" She cried, throwing her arms around his neck. ((Thank you))

"Ada's going to kill me for this." He muttered, but got her a bow and blade all the same.

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Arwen had no idea where she was when she finally woke up, and only Legolas's slight moan had remembrance rushing back and filling in the gaps. Her eyes cleared lazily, as she still felt utterly worn out, and she came to full awareness much slower than usual. She was pressed against Legolas's back, her arm tightly around his waist in a protective grip, as if even her sleeping mind (for it _had_ been true sleep then) had worried for him as much as her waking one. Her back was to the small cave entrance so that if anything came in, it would see her first. It was instinctual and somehow right, because he was Elvin royalty, and she…

Some named her princess as they named her brothers princes, but she didn't think of herself so highly. Yes, her father could have been High King, but he wasn't a blood heir of Gil-Galad, and even though they _did_ have royal blood through her great-grandmother, Idril, who was the daughter of King Turgon…it was hard to explain. She just didn't feel very royal, and she bore no crown, nor had she taken the oaths of duty and responsibility that _true_ royals did. Legolas had taken those oaths, years and years ago, as had his siblings. And his sister, she was truly a Princess Royal, the last on these shores, just as Legolas was the last of his kind.

Because Ornutur…He was a sweet, loving Elf, an Elf that made the greatest of friends, but…But he was not strong like they were. He didn't cause that shimmer, that feeling in the air, whenever he was around like they did, and it set him apart from the others of his family. That was why many still gave Legolas the title of 'the last great Elvin Prince', because in all honesty, he was. Few outside the Woodland Realm even knew the younger prince's name, because there were no tales of him to be spread around, no awed whispers, and his beauty, while great, was shadowed by his siblings and his parents', who shone like captured stars.

She had always known the Mirkwood Royals, since Legolas had been courting the twins for almost four decades before her birth, and his sister was her brothers' age, minus about fifteen years, so they had become fast friends. Ornutur was born a little over seven centuries later, and they had all known, though they'd never spoken of it, that the fall from her horse that the queen had taken some months before had weakened the young prince. Not in the mind, no, but in strength, Elvin strength and inner strength, and the queen had blamed herself for years to come. But Legolas had grown quite attached to the little elfling, and he'd taught him to fight, to read, to dance, to sing.

Under his older brother's (and the twins') careful care, he grew more powerful than anyone had hoped for, and most contributed it to his having had three of the best warriors in Arda as his teachers. And it _was_ that, but it was also his own will, his will to show them that he _could_ do the things other Elves could do, that drove him on so strongly. But he had never reached even his sister's level, and after three centuries, he'd given up regular weapons practice and taken to holing himself up in the Great Library, coming out only when Legolas and the twins or Arwen and his sister came searching for him, dragging him outside for some much-needed fresh air.

Legolas moaned again and knocked her thoughts back into the present, and she could feel him shivering violently. Rising slowly, as every muscle in her body seemed to be screaming at her to stop moving and lay back down, she slid quite ungracefully out from underneath their cloaks, leaves in her hair and stuck in her tunic. It seemed to take forever to reach the pile of firewood that she had previously gathered, and even longer to get back to Legolas's side with it and her pack. Moving a few feet away, she didn't have the energy to create a circle of stones, and she barely had enough to get the fire going with the flint in her pack.

What was wrong with her? She had to have slept for at least a day, judging by the position of the stars that she had glimpsed outside of the small opening, but she felt as if she'd been up a straight week with no rest at all. It made no sense, and it was starting to really worry her. Pulling out a small portion of Lembas, she chewed on it thoughtfully; even that small bit of movement shooting jagged bursts of pain down her spine and into her fingers and toes, but her head was the worst. It felt like an orc had cracked her upside the skull with a club, since she'd had that happen once and it was the only thing that she could remember hurting enough to describe this…

This demonic headache. She'd never had a headache before, not without having gotten hit quite hard, since Elves simply weren't afflicted by such things. But, apparently, they were. Or maybe it was just the small bit of mortal blood in her veins. Maybe _that_ made her prey to such when she'd exhausted herself so completely. Maybe. A cold tingle of fear swarmed through her, and she closed her eyes, even so small a movement agonizing. Any warmth the fire might have given left her, as she searched inside herself and found that she was right. It was not her Edain blood, nor was it just a simple headache that would leave her shortly.

She was fading.

Oddly, a strange sense of peace filled her, soothing some of the pain and wiping away some of the fear. Her eyes wandered back to Legolas, running over his familiar features, features that had smiled with her, laughed with her, cried with her. Perhaps it was better to die now, with him, then to live a lonely life with him gone. He and the twins and her father were her world, as were Elenhísë and Glorfindel and Erestor, but the former four were the center of it, the foundation that everything she knew was built around. Her mother had once been first and foremost on that list, but she walked the shores of Valinor now, and Arwen knew that she was safe, untouchable, unreachable.

_Yes_, she thought dreamily, _I shall die here with him, and we shall pass into Mandos' Halls together, neither of us alone in death. _Something sharp nipped her hand, and she looked down at Sereg, who seemed to be glaring at her, as if he knew what she was thinking. The look in those mismatched eyes was clear: '_Do not fail him._' And giving up so soon would most certainly do that. A new flare of hope alit within her, giving her a measure of her strength back, and she stumbled over to where the bowls of water were, the thick brush on the floor making the walk treacherous, and she was painstakingly careful not to spill a drop, sitting back down by her sick prince with it.

Mixing just enough of the healing herbs she had with her into the water, she tried to tear off a section of her cloak only to find, to her shock, that she had not even the strength for that. Her boot knife did the trick, though, and she dipped the heavy fabric into the water, letting it soak while she carefully unwrapped Legolas's wounds. She was as gentle as possible and he didn't wake, not even when she cleaned them, although he did thrash and mumble incoherently, the only things she could truly make out being her brothers' names. Tears springing to her eyes again, she rewrapped the festering wounds with the last of the gauze that she had brought.

How had it come to this? How had they stepped outside the Valar's grace enough to warrant such punishment? Legolas was highly favored by them, every Elf knew that after one look in those divine green eyes, and she herself was said to be blessed by them. But here they were, supposedly two of the Valar's most favored, and they were stranded in a cave with the smallest bits of food and water, a dying fire, and death and shadow cloaking their every breath. Her body was shutting down, she could feel it, she'd pushed herself too far even knowing her new weakness, and she fell half onto the pallet of leaves, her head cracking against the debris-strewn floor.

The last thing she saw was spreading flames.

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Snow howled around them in a torrent, but the twins kept moving, knowing that to stop without finding shelter could kill even them. No mortal Men or horses would have been able to survive the whipping, raging blizzard that they were stalking through, having long ago been forced to stop riding and lead their mounts. The storm had come fast and hard the night before, and they hadn't stopped in over thirty-six hours, Legolas's growing suffering pulling them forward even though they were far past running on their reserve energy. Only mad determination kept them from keeling over, from abandoning such a foolish trek and waiting out the storm.

Only mad determination and depthless love.

Elrohir's teeth were clacking together fiercely, his face and hands long past numb, and for a being not used to feeling the cold, it was horrendous. He wanted so badly to just curl up on the snow and drift off to sleep, to let the swirling, diamond-sharp flakes cover him in a blanket of white. But every time he started to drift off, emerald eyes and mithril-streaked hair flashed in front of his eyes, and he kept moving, kept walking, kept himself from even the brief walking-repose that their kind was so efficient at. Because some part of him didn't know if he would ever wake back up, and he was of no help to his bonded or his sister if he was frozen under a dozen feet of snow.

He wasn't much help, anyway. He had failed them.

If only he or Elladan or both had gone with them across the Misty Mountains…It all could have been different. The three of them could have fought together as they usually did, they could have conquered their foe and been in Mirkwood's outer borders by now. Or, it at least could have been _him_ who'd been wounded by the Witch-king's blade, _him_ who was having his mind eaten by shadow. He wished it was. He wished it more than he'd ever wished for just about anything, and he felt even more helpless than he had when his mother sailed. At least he'd known that she would find peace in the Golden Land. There was no peace for a wraith.

Very nearly sick at the thought, he wondered if he would throw up for the first time in his life. It felt like it. Gritting his teeth in an effort to stop their clattering and to gain a grip on himself, he barely caught Elladan when he stumbled and fell. Weaker than he'd thought, his twin's weight drug Elrohir to the ground with him, and neither moved for a long moment, the cold eating into their very bones and making it nearly impossible to think, to feel. They should not have been so affected by the freezing temperature, even though it was a blizzard strong enough to kill a healthy Elf caught unawares. But they were not healthy.

They were fading.

But both were determined to see their love one last time and to kiss their sister's brow, both were determined to make it to them and die beside them, because they knew that if they were fading so rapidly, then Arwen would be starting the process herself. It didn't seem fair, not fair at all, and for the first time ever, they lost just a bit of their faith in the Valar. Even Celebrían sailing hadn't accomplished that, it had just made a dark, cold place inside them bloom, but _this_, this made them doubt _everything_. And it hurt, the doubt hurt physically, and it made everything worse. But they couldn't stop it, couldn't control it, because they were blinded by love's loss.

It came as quite the horror when they realized that they couldn't stand, not even with each other's help, and he felt like sobbing, screaming, anything to let out the overwhelming frustration and guilt and anguish that was converging on him from all sides and from _inside_, and there was no escaping it or fighting it. Digging his fingers into the snow, he pulled himself forward the smallest bit and nearly collapsed onto his face, but he refused to stop. Handful by handful, they drug themselves along the shifting white mass underneath them, until a dark shape appeared above Elladan and he was being lifted, his hood falling back and revealing a shock of silvered hair.

Elrohir gaped, his cracked and frozen lips parting as much as they were able, for he hadn't seen Elladan without that hood in over a day, and the last he had seen, that hair had still been the blackest of blacks. Now it was almost completely gray, only small strands of raven remaining, and it was a dark, thick-looking gray that shimmered like silver. Then he was being lifted too, a toss of the horse's head throwing him over another's back, and he landed next to Elladan, Moriára starting out through the whirling wall of whiteness before them once more. Their own horses were to either side, having been the ones to pick them up, and they gasped out a thanks.

It was lost on the wind, but their horses knew that they were grateful, and he curled up next to his brother as closely as he could get without falling off. He was cold, so cold, and his eyes were actually drooping shut, which was a very bad sign in itself. Elladan reached out to him with violently trembling fingers, the icy tips brushing over his cheek before they pulled a lock of his own hair out from underneath the hood, and it was almost lost in the snow, only a few shades too dark of a gray to match that dingy white. Elladan looked so sad as he gazed on those pale strands, strands a color that no Elf in Arda or Valinor had, and a tear froze on his cheek.

'_Amin hiraetha_.' Elrohir called through their twin-bond, feeling the need to apologize though he knew not what for. For not going with their sister and their love? For his hair being such a distressing sight? Did it matter? Not really. Elladan's eyes widened slightly, as if he knew his thoughts, which he probably did, and he shook his head. ((I'm sorry))

'_Oio_ _naa elealla alasse', lirimaer_.' He replied softly, and Elrohir tried to smile, but the muscles in his face didn't seem to be working, unless the ceaseless shivering counted. ((Ever is thy sight a joy, lovely one.))

For a long time afterwards, all they knew were pounding hooves and the stinging, biting snow. They had never felt more fragile, more _mortal_, than they did then, and they decided that they didn't like it at all. Elros was mad for choosing a life of Men. Absolutely _mad_. And so were the authors of the fantasy books back in Imladris and Mirkwood, because there was nothing romantic or noble about freezing to death. Trust an immortal, immune Elf to write such a thing. He bet that none of _them_ had been fading in the middle of the worst snowstorm they'd seen in centuries. If only they weren't ill, if only, if only, if only…

The 'ifs' never stopped, running circle upon circle in his head as he fought to stay conscious, as he fought to stay alive. Who'd ever heard of an Elf dying from the cold? It was absurd, like an Elf falling from a tree to its death, but no one would think that when they found their bodies during the spring melts. And that was a much too negative train of thought to be having, even though things had never looked gloomier. Meeting his twin's eyes again, he was jolted out of his daze when he saw that he couldn't, because they were _closed_. Frantic panic sinking claws into him, he grabbed his twin by the shoulders and shook him hard.

'_Elladan!_' Nothing. Just darkness and silent noise. '_Don't do this to me, saes! Saes, Elladan, saes wake up! Sweet Ilúvatar, don't do this, saes don't do this…_' ((please))

He was weeping again, though he'd thought all of his tears long wasted by then, and they were tiny ice crystals that burned his cheeks like flames, but it was nothing compared to the burning of his fëa. Not both, he couldn't lose one, let alone both…Gods, what had they done to deserve such fates, such suffering, such sorrow? They had followed the laws of Eru diligently, they had prayed and worshiped daily, and they were said to be favored by the Mighty Ones. But he no longer believed that as he stared at eyelids that should never be shut, as he watched the last pieces of his spirit crumbling into nothing but darkness.

And yet…yet he thought he could still feel that distant throb, that pulse of something great and majestic, and he did not notice as they slid off the horse and hit the snow; he did not notice their mounts stop and hang their heads, growing much too weary themselves. All he saw was his twin's cherished face, the face that had grown gaunt and haunting and somehow even more beautiful due to their grief; all he saw was that dark hair that was as gray as their eyes had been, hair that was fanning out over the snow as the wind ripped past them. And overlaying that was sea-green eyes and Teleri silver, Sindarin gold. His heart clenching as his vision began blackening, it was he that ran fingertips over the other's cheek, his words built on that little smudge of hope and belief still within him.

"Valarllo, ya vanessë antaë ninna, á lavë lelyaës. Á lavë náë engaiës." And then Elrohir Peredhil, an uncrowned prince of his people, second-born son of Elrond Eärendilion, brother of the Evenstar and bonded to the Crown Prince of Taur-e-Ndaedelos, knew no more. ((By the Valar, what grace has given to me, let it be passed to him. Let him be spared.))

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Please review!! And I'm sure you all recognize the last lines, lol. Check out the Author Note to see who's credited for the Quenya, and REVIEW, because hardly anyone seems to like this…(sobs)

((Taur-e-Ndaedelos -- The Forest of the Great Fear))


	5. Grief and Grace Pt 5

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

**Responses to Reviewers: Shi Ryuu**, you too? I looooove L/twins! :) **Sunn-Kissed**, you're not blind, I'm probably just confusing, lol. **LEGOSGURL**, you should like this chappie, and I'm not sure about that other fic. we'll see! **SkotosEnigma**, you are _so_ right. it does not get any hotter than elvin twins! :P **harry-fanfic-reader**, thanks! glad you like it! **Daeomae**, THANK YOU!** Nikkiling**, thanks, and you'll have to wait and see! **Hearts Corruption**, thanks, and your review had me cracking up!lol **Incessant Darkness**, okay the twins share a bond because they're twins, and they share one with Legolas because they're bound to him. It'll be explained farther later. And as for the timeline, this is all taking place _before_ the War of the Ring, in the Year 2933 of the Third Age, whereas the destruction of Sauron happened in 3019. :) **Bookworm, .303**, what can I say? Legolas deserves some props, damn it! lol Thanks for reviewing!!!! **Goddess Of the Fallen**, thank you to eternity and back for that lovely comment! Love ya!!!! **morphed**, sorry if it's repetitive for you, but I never said it would be a short story, lol! :P **VirginGoddess**, blackmail! oh, that is _so_ cold! I'm wounded! (swoons and faints dead away) **Psi**, thank you, oh faithful reviewer! love ya!

**Quick Note:** 'Adar' means 'father', 'Ada' means, basically, 'Dad', 'Edain' means 'Man' or 'Human', and 'elleth' means 'she-elf'. Just letting you know since they're the only things not translated.

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"Telpe-aran!" A voice rang through the high branches of the Golden Wood, startling more than a few other Elves that were used to the quiet, undisturbed peace of Lothlórien. "Celeborn! Come quickly! 'Tis the Lady Galadriel!" ((Silver-lord))

"What?" Celeborn called back, excusing himself from the mid-day lunch he was sharing with a few of the nobles and swiftly striding from the room and out onto the balcony. Looking down, he saw Orophin twenty or so feet below him, easily perched on a snowy, outstretched branch of one of the mallorns.

"Oh, thank the Valar!" The Galadhrim exclaimed when he saw Celeborn appear through the creamy, floor-length drapes. "You must come now, my lord, for the Lady…It's not as bad as the last time, but nearly, and…It's Elladan and Elrohir, my lord."

Celeborn had never seen the warrior so lost for words before, except when he'd come, climbing and shouting up a tree just as he was now, to tell him much the same, except it had regarded Celebrían, his darling Celebrían. And now, now he came with such a similar warning, such a similar summons, and Celeborn felt his heart grow cold with dread. He reached out for Galadriel through their bond, just the smallest bit, but he met a wall of icy resistance and sighed. Not bothering to go back and in and waste time with explanations and long flights of stairs, he leapt over the balcony and onto the branch that held Orophin.

"Let's go then." He said, and they were off, going from tree to tree nimbly and making their way to Galadriel's garden.

They found the Lady of Lórien by her silver basin, but she was not gazing down into the waters that let her see so many things. No, his beautiful wife was staring off into the trees, her eyes wide and pained, the blue orbs glistening with the diamond-like tears that were slowly trickling down her pale cheeks. Thanking Orophin quietly, he made his way to her slowly, not wishing to startle her. She didn't turn at all, not even when he was standing less than a foot behind her, and he slid his arms around her waist, offering comfort even as his own heart beat madly. She would not be so upset if it weren't something horrible.

"A'maelamin, what troubles you so?" He asked softly into that spill of golden hair, and a fine shaking started just underneath her skin. ((Beloved))

"Legolas was wounded by the blade of the Black Captain."

He said nothing, the many implications of that sinking in and hitting hard. He knew that Legolas was on a patrol with his granddaughter, deep in the Misty Mountains, which meant that help from any of the three Realms would almost assuredly be too late. Arwen was strong, she could look after her friend, but only if she didn't begin fading, which was a very real, very frightening possibility. The twins would know, of course, and they would most certainly start fading during the journey to reach him. Hopefully, they had Glorfindel, Elrond or both with them to keep them from doing anything…rash. Which they were wont to do. And as for Thranduil…

Well, Thranduil reminded him of his wife.

So it was likely that he knew as well. And no matter if the help of the Laurelindórenan would take too long or not, Celeborn himself would go immediately, taking the best of his warriors and healers with him. He would have done so anyway for any bonded of his grandchildren, but he also would have done so had Legolas not been bound to the twins, since he was kin of his kin through his sister, Tyelpië, who had wedded Oropher millennia ago and faded when he died. He'd loved the Greenleaf of the Greenwood centuries before the twins were even born, and he remembered the mischievous elfling that he had been.

It was that elfling who had melted his heart, the elfling that had his sister's smile. He had been captivated since he'd first met those emerald eyes when Legolas had only just been born, and he clearly recalled his sister's elation. Her grandson had been her pride and joy along with Thranduil, and she'd had too short of a time with him, much too short. So he would have gone searching for the young prince anyway, even if the twins didn't love him, even if he himself didn't love him. But they did, and it was not a single blow that his corruption or death would cause should it come to pass. Had they not lost enough already?

"Yes, we have, saelon." His wife replied, and he'd been unaware until then that he had spoken that last aloud. "But there is always more to lose." ((wise one))

"Too true, pen-vanima, too true." He sighed again, and kissed her cheek. "I will leave at once. How long ago did this occur?" ((beautiful one))

"Four days." Galadriel said after a slight pause, and her voice wavered the slightest bit, like silk rustling in the wind. His head swam.

"Lau!" ((No))

"I know, meldanya. It has been too long for my gift to have done us any good." There was such sorrow in that sweet tone, such sorrow emanating from every inch of her and him as well, and he straightened, drawing her around and looking in those ancient, youthful eyes. ((my dear))

"I will go now, and we will ride for the Misty Mountains with all haste. And I…I will send a message to a friend of mine that dwells there. If they can get to Legolas and Arwen, then all hope may not be lost."

"Celeborn, you are not thinking of…"

"Hush, melmenya. You know I must. What other choice do we have at this point?" He cut her off gently, and she was the one to sigh that time. Laying her head on his shoulder, the shaking grew just a bit worse. ((my love))

"None. They are on the eastern side, a hundred leagues to the north of the Weeping Stone. Go then, and by the Valar, _return to me_."

Who was he to disobey Artanis? Nodding and kissing those lips hungrily, he was as lost in her as he always was for countless moments, knowing nothing but her delectable taste. Then, with great reluctance, he ripped himself away and stalked out of the garden, because if he'd stayed a moment longer, he wouldn't have been able to leave her. It was always like that. She was the light of his existence, and the desire to be with her constantly hadn't lessened a bit over the passing Ages. Thoughts racing through his head, he exited the garden, for once not noticing the lulling sound of the brook or the peaceful sound of the light snow hitting the golden trees.

"Orophin!"

"Heruamin?" The soft voice called back, dropping to the earth out of the branches that still bore leaves even in the current season, and the fair-haired elf regarded Celeborn warily. ((My lord? /familiar/))

"Find your brothers and the rest of my guard, as well as the head healer and his apprentice. Prepare for a hard journey and meet me at the northern paddock as soon as you can. We ride at once."

"As you command, heruamin."

Orophin was gone in a moment's time, back in the trees soundlessly and searching for his siblings and fellow guards. Celeborn took to the trees himself, making his way swiftly from limb to limb until he'd reached his and Galadriel's talan. Upon entering, he hurriedly threw a pack together and changed out of his robes into a winter riding tunic. Heavy boots went on next, their laces done in a flash, then a light cloak and a thicker, leather one on top of that, which was lined in thick fur and oiled to help keep the inside dry. There was one more thing he had to do before joining his guards, though, and he felt himself fall into a drifting trance.

'_Morion..._' He called with his mind, reaching over the long leagues until he brushed against the other Elf's consciousness.

'_Celeborn? You have not contacted me in such a way for centuries._' The reply came after a minute or so, and Celeborn would have smiled had the situation not been so dire.

'_Forgive__ me, but it is a matter of great importance_.' Celeborn told him, and he could feel Morion's instant caution.

'_Mani_ _naa__ ta?_' He asked, and Celeborn felt like sighing again. He explained what had happened quickly, but he didn't need to explain the consequences if Legolas was corrupted or if he died. Morion knew well what would happen in the days and weeks afterwards. ((What is it?))

'_Manke__naa__ lle? Galadriel says they are north of the Weeping Stone._' Celeborn said when he was finished, and Morion answered after a short pause. ((Where are you?))

'_I am nearby._'

'_Oh, thank Vána! Will you go?_'

'_That was a foolish question, Celeborn. Is your age catching up with you?_'

'_Now I remember why we couldn't stop fighting when we were elflings. Enough with this, it tires me to hold the connection so long from so far away. Tenna' ento lye omenta._' Celeborn said, very nearly laughing. Morion was not your typical Elf, but he could make Celeborn laugh through just about anything. ((Until next we meet))

'_Tenna'_ _ento__ lye omenta_.' Morion called back, and then the link closed and Celeborn was alone inside his mind again.

Throwing his pack over his shoulder, he used the stairs that time, since the long, winding way to the forest floor gave him time to braid his hair in tiny plaits, keeping it out of his face. Jumping the last flight and hitting the snow lightly, he ignored the courtesans trying to get his attention and ran to the northern paddock, not particularly caring what the others thought about their lord dashing past as if Sauron himself were at his heels. He refused to waste a single second in getting to his grandchildren and the prince, and stopping for them would waste much more than mere seconds. Reaching the paddock, he was mounted before most of the guards even knew he was near.

"_Lle desiel?_" He asked, his voice carrying through the afternoon air and startling those that hadn't felt his swift approach. ((Are you ready?))

"Maer, heruamin." Haldir, the Captain of his guard, responded immediately, being one of the few who'd witnessed his arrival. ((Yes, my lord. /familiar/))

"Let us be off, then." He said, and the fifteen warriors and two healers that were finishing up the last of the preparations leapt onto their horses' backs. Orophin and Élion went out of the paddock first, and Celeborn followed with the rest trailing, Haldir and Rúmil on either side of him, their bodies meant to be shields. Haldir kept shooting him nervous glances and opening his lips the barest bit, as if he wished to speak but couldn't find the words, and since they couldn't gallop through the thick mallorns just yet anyway, Celeborn inquired as to what was bothering him, already knowing the answer.

"I was just…" The Marchwarden started, glancing briefly away before his eyes came back to his lord. "Are the twins truly in danger?"

Oh, how to explain this to an Elf he loved like the son he'd never had? After Haldir and his brothers' parents had died in the War of the Last Alliance, Celeborn and Galadriel had taken the three of them in, being their parents' best friends. Only Haldir had been old enough to fight in that battle, and he had seen his parents fall, he had seen his father killed from behind and his mother's murderous fury, which had led her to attack an entire group of orcs, killing dozens before she was riddled with arrows. And Haldir, Haldir had been at Celeborn's side where he had sworn to stay, duty and oaths keeping him there against everything.

Had Celeborn seen what was happening, he would have released the young Elf from his service and told him to go to them, but the fighting had been too hectic, too frenzied, and he had not seen. Haldir's only comfort on the long trek back had been that he had fulfilled his promise to his father and guarded their lord throughout it all. And Celeborn, Celeborn didn't forget that sacrifice, and never would. He trained the young one from then on, him and his brothers, and they were as much his family as his grandchildren or his daughter. And now, now he was supposed to tell them that not only might they lose the twins and Arwen, but more, as well.

Orophin and Rúmil were both going to be heartbroken, but Haldir…Legolas was his best friend, his sworn brother. They had known each other since they were barely four years of age, their births barely a year apart, which had been rare before the surge of breeding in the Greenwood after the War, an effort to repopulate their decimated numbers. Haldir's father had been a good friend of Thranduil as well, and he'd often journeyed to Eryn Galen, taking little Haldir with him. The two elflings had clicked instantly, and the absolute horror they'd put the household through had been hair-raising. Impish minds most certainly _do_ think alike.

If they weren't throwing berries at their elders, hiding Oropher's crown, or trying to see _just how much_ it took to make Thranduil's head explode, they were coloring the warriors' tunics pink with irremovable (and quite questionable) pigments and mixing dye into the wine at dinner so that every Elf in the Hall left with lips stained a dark crimson. Celeborn vividly remembered coming home to Lórien after visiting the Greenwood during such fiascos, and fervently thanking the Valar that Legolas had yet to express an interest in coming to the Golden Wood. The Greenwood Elves understood their prince, but the Lothlórien Elves would have been appalled.

_Quite like the Imladris Elves were at first_, he thought ruefully. Oh yes, Elrond had very much despaired ever letting the twins step foot within that mighty, sprawling forest. They'd left as the perfect diplomats, studious and unfalteringly polite, and they'd returned with promise bands on their fingers and wicked gleams in their eyes that had boded very badly for the residents of Elrond's Realm, who'd quickly found themselves in some very unfortunate situations that their friends usually found all too funny until something even worse happened to _them_. Celebrían, he recalled, had found it all very amusing, but then again, they hadn't ever even tried to harass her.

Even _he_ hadn't been so lucky, nor had Elrond nor Glorfindel nor Erestor…Galadriel had been, but the twins adored and respected her far too much to ever do something as blasphemous as cover her in swamp mud and live, wriggling minnows as soon as she entered the parlor, and then run away before blood could be drawn. _Little balrogs_, he thought absently, only then realizing what his prolonged silence had meant to Haldir when he saw his worried eyes and tight lips. Again wondering how to tell him, he decided that truth was the best option, because keeping it from him would only make it worse if they found Legolas and he'd been taken by shadow.

"Yes, pen-vuil, the twins are in danger. But not from what you are thinking." He said carefully, fully aware that the whole company was listening. ((dear one))

"Then from _what_, adar?" Valar, how long had it taken for Haldir to start calling him that? _Years upon years,_ his mind whispered back, and he wished that he could save them this pain. But, regardless of what his people thought, he was not all-powerful, nor was his wife, and they couldn't just stop this, even though he wished it were so.

"From grief." He said, and he watched Haldir's face shut down completely, that arrogant mask that all of their kindred perfected over the long turns of the sun concealing any emotions he was feeling, but Celeborn knew him too well. He knew that the first Haldir would suspect to be the cause of the grief would be Legolas, and sadly enough, Celeborn couldn't refute that.

"No." Was all his foster-son said, shaking his silver head and ignoring his brothers, who were drawing closer to him, as if they feared what Celeborn would say as much as their brother, and feared even more what Haldir might do.

"Yes. But we will find him. I promise you this." Celeborn said, clasping the younger Elf's shoulder with one gloved hand as that mask cracked and a look of such utter, gut-wrenching dismay filled those handsome features that Celeborn felt the first tear slide down his cheek.

They rose in silence for a long while, too worried and contemplative to appreciate the beauty of the snow-covered wood as they usually would have. Orophin and Rúmil looked as if the world was ending, as they were good friends with the twins, Legolas and the Evenstar, but Haldir…He was the eldest of his brothers, the strongest, the one they looked up to in all things. And when he finally needed help, they could do nothing, and that intensified their own grief. The end of the forest was coming up, and the horses started pushing forward a bit more, feeling their riders' anxiousness to be out. His heart heavy, Celeborn was the first to break through them and into the sun.

They'd barely made it fifty yards when a familiar call rang out, one that he had not expected to hear this time.

"Namárië, mela en' coiamin, namárië!" Galadriel's harmonious voice carried over the field to them on the wind itself, and he turned to see her, her hair blowing out around her like golden wings, one slender, elegant arm raised. And suddenly, the weight in his chest wasn't as hard to bear.

Because no matter what happened, he would always have his Alatáriel.

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Glorfindel was furious. He'd been furious for three days, and it didn't look like he would ever be calm again, or so Lindir assumed. And it was, quite simply, not in the least bit comforting when you had to constantly deal with an enraged balrog slayer. Glorfindel had died once (by way of his hair, of all things), killing one of the most feared creatures alive in the progress, chatted with Mandos, come back, and taken the position of Seneschal and Captain of the guard for the Bearer of Vilya. No one in their right mind would do something to get him as angry as he was, but the twins had never cared about that when they were truly gripped by something. Personally, Lindir had expected their escape that first night.

And could Glorfindel have _been_ anymore self-incriminating about it? Lindir had had half a mind to tell Elrond that he shouldn't be allowed to possess anything sharp, but Glorfindel had heard him muttering about it and threatened to tie his 'useless, harp-wielding' self to a tree. Lindir had wisely shut up. But that had been over two days ago, before this damnable blizzard had set in. He hadn't seen a snowstorm so vicious or so deadly cold in…in longer than he could easily recall, at any rate. Currently, they were huddled in one of the many caves that pocketed Hithaeglir, and a medium-sized fire was all they could keep going because of the shifting drafts.

They'd been forced to stop when one of the guards had passed out, and they'd all been so shocked that no one had known what to do at first. Lord Elrond had taken control, though, and with a grim face, he'd ordered them to find shelter. There'd been whispers of the storm being a 'Quendi-killer', and they all feared leaving the stone shelter and returning into that raging force of nature. Many suspected that the only reason none of them had already been lost was because of Vilya, which glittered brightly on Lord Elrond's hand. Glorfindel suddenly stood again, paced for a moment, and then headed resolutely for the whistling whiteness outside. ((Elf))

"My lord, you cannot go back out in that yet!" Lindir exclaimed before he'd even thought about it, and the Seneschal spun, glaring for all he was worth. Lindir stumbled back a step, and the harsh look on the Elf-lord's face diminished slightly when he saw the fear on Lindir's own.

"Forgive me, dear minstrel, but I must." He said softly, and Lord Elrond, looking more haggard than anyone had seen him since Celebrían sailed, stood.

"He is right. You should all stay here, we'll manage just fine on our own."

Well, _that_ wasn't going to happen, and twenty minutes and six fights later, they all poured back out into the cold, leaving their mounts in the cave with the fire, having made it safe by clearing all of the brush and debris from the floor of the large chamber when they'd first arrived. The first hour of their trek was uneventful if you didn't count falling into deceptive holes covered by thin layers of snow and, in accordance with their seemingly endless chain of bad luck, tiny ice particles that cut into any exposed skin like shards of flying glass. It was not a pleasant journey. And it got even less pleasant when one of the younger guards tripped over something sticking up out of the snow.

It was in an area where the thick flakes actually weren't too high, right around the base of a gigantic old tree, and it appeared, at first, to be a log, a broken limb of some sort, but no. It was a leg. A _Man's_ leg. Digging the rest of the body from the snow was taxing, but what if the twins were buried under there, too? It was a horrible thought, but being around dead bodies tends to either make you numb and morbid or scared and useless. And they'd all seen plenty of death before, but Lindir didn't know how they would handle it if the two raven-haired princes really _were_ buried under that frosty mass. But they weren't, as a half hour's work soon showed.

There were a slew of dead Men, but none of their kind at all, let alone the twins. They did, however, find one of Elrohir's many knives, covered in the Mortals' blood, and an arrow fletched with black feathers but for one, which was silver and marked it as Elladan's, whereas the opposite would have made it Elrohir's. It, too, was covered in blood, seeing as how they'd broken it out of the frozen body of one of the Men. More arrows were soon uncovered, but any tracks showing which direction the twins had left in were long gone. Soul-weary, Lindir stayed with the others as they continued on, wishing the children of his lord and the young woodland prince better luck than they were having.

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Galadriel stood motionless in the highest branches of the tallest tree in Lórien, the top of hers and Celeborn's talan some meters below her, and she watched the stars with half of her usual vigor. Too many things played through her mind, merging with memories of the long-lost years of the past that she recalled as clearly as yesterday, but which were nothing more than stories and legends even amongst her own people here on Arda. Nenya tried to comfort her, but after the things that she had seen…She would find no comfort this night, nor any night following for a very long time. She hadn't told Celeborn the half of it earlier.

She knew she would when he returned, but the visions were all her own until then, and they were like a never-ending parade that danced through her head, fogging the reality around her with ghostly images and whisping tendrils of thoughts, words, emotions. She had seen many things the first time she had looked upon her grandsons, greatness and strength and sorrow and purity, rage and darkness and hate and love. But for Arwen…Oh, it didn't seem right that she would lose her granddaughter just as she would soon be with her daughter again. Arwen was sentenced to a life of fear and devotion, of loss and pain and grief.

But for a while, she would be blindingly happy. That soothed the ache a little, but not enough for a grandmother that adored her little Evenstar above most else. And she had thought she knew the twins future, but now, now she wondered if she knew anything. Because their bonded…She had seen his fate long ago, the first time that she had lain her hand upon Isillinque's daintily bulging stomach. The queen had demanded she tell her what she saw after Galadriel's eyes had unglazed, returning from silver to their usual sapphire blue. But how could she have? How could she have told her what her son would one day face, would one day do?

Oh, yes, Galadriel knew that he would be one of the Nine, she knew that he would go and represent all of their people in the Great War of the Ring. But how could she have told Isillinquë that her then unborn son would one day go to Mordor on a hopeless Quest and fight the last fight at the Morannon itself? At the time, she'd still held out hope that the Last Alliance would be successful, but they had not been, and her suspicions were farther confirmed by the arrival of Mithrandir. But now…Now she saw him changing, being eaten by shadow and despair, and she didn't think that he would ever make it to the Black Gates again at this point.

She'd let Celeborn leave with a ray of hope, but she had none. Death after coming death passed before her open eyes, all stemming from one. Some, when just hearing tales of Legolas Thranduilion, wondered why people praised him so highly, saying that no one was that perfect. But what they didn't understand, until they'd met him themselves, was that it wasn't that he was perfect, but that he had a rare, natural ability to make others love him so much that they thought he was. She knew of not a single Elf that had left an encounter with him and not been utterly bewitched, spreading their own tales afterwards, any doubt gone.

When she'd shared those thoughts with Celeborn, he'd smiled his soft, secretive smile and said, '_You_ _only notice this beguiling power now, meleth-nín? You yourself have possessed it for millennia_', and she'd swatted him with one of his arrows. Those were much happier times, times when she didn't have such a burden on her as this recent knowledge provided. She almost wished she didn't, that the Valar would take her gift away from her, but it was only a half-formed thought. She'd accepted the two sides of the gift, the blessing and the curse, and she no longer tormented herself over what she saw. But this was different, this was…harder, so much harder. ((my love))

She wanted to leap up and rush from the forest as she would have done when she was young, riding off to their rescue with dreams of glory in her soul and a sword on her back. But she had a Realm to look after now, and her youth was literal Ages ago. Descending from the tree, she barely noticed the long climb down, heading back to her garden and staying as far away from her silver basin as possible. Sitting by the slowly churning brook, she let the water lull her, and caught her reflection sometime later. _How?_ She wondered. _How can my face be so very youthful, as youthful as my granddaughter's, and yet have seen so very much?_

Their immortality still shocked even her every once in a while along the drifting centuries, and sometimes it came as a surprise on days like these, when her fëa felt so very old and worn, and yet she looked the same as she had during the Years of the Trees. Shouldn't lines mar her beauty, testimony to all that she had borne? Shouldn't gray streak her golden hair, strands upon strands for every loved one that she had lost and would still lose? She suddenly missed her brothers with a keen sharpness that did not seem dulled at all by the length of time she had harbored her grief for them, and she did not wish her fate upon Arwen.

Because the Evenstar might be fading, but she wouldn't in the end. Something would save her even if Legolas and her brothers died, because something had to in order to ensure any sort of livable future for Arda. She was needed, and she could not be spared. Legolas could not be spared, either, but she could see no way for him to come out of this without becoming a wraith. And then…No, she did not want to think of would have to be done should that be the case. The only hope she saw for him was for his death to be swift and painless, though she already knew that it was much too late for that. He suffered as even she thought of him.

She just hoped that the twins had time to tell him goodbye and kiss him before the end, that they had time to hug their sister before they, too, passed, that Elrond would be able to recover from this, that Thranduil's family would not come to lie in ruin as her own seemed to be…And she hoped for a miracle, because it was not eight that she saw leave from Imladris, but nine, and without that ninth destined figure, the entire vision fell apart into nothing more than crumbling embers of what had been a small flame of hope, the last hope for Arda's survival. And this other vision…what she had not told Celeborn was that they would find the prince, there was no doubt about that.

Find him only to lose him again.

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Slower chapter, and no Legolas or twins (although you _did_ get Haldir and Co.), but never fear, the next will be stuffed with them! Unless…oh, I dunno…none of you review! So, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease REVIEW!!!! Or I shall go mad and conveniently forget how to work this computer, therefore never posting again! (cackles evilly)

((Laurelindórenan -- 'Land of the Valley of Singing Gold', another name for the Golden Wood))

((Artanis -- The name Galadriel's father gave her at her birth))

((Alatáriel -- An ancient form of the name 'Galadriel'))

((Hithaeglir -- The Elvish name for the Misty Mountains))

((Morannon -- Another name for the Black Gates of Mordor))

((Mithrandir -- The Elvish name for Gandalf))


	6. Grief and Grace Pt 6

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

**Responses to Reviewers: scotty-lass**, thanks so much! I'm really glad you like it!** The Noble Rot**, okay, now I'm blushing, and that just isn't fair…But thanks!!!! **morphed**, thanks! and what don't you get about the POV's? **Incessant Darkness**, thank you, and it was the least I could do since you reviewed! :) **Sunn-Kissed**, I thought I explained that he'd been helping the twins instruct her, but don't worry, it'll be explained more later on, lol. :P **lingvist**, sorry, and please see the below author's note. I, unfortunately, am not infallible, and I heartily apologize for my general stupidity.** Shi Ryuu**, well, this one should _greatly_ amuse you then, if that's the case. and I know, I love Celeborn, too! **Sesshyangel**, it is so nice to find a fellow Legolas-worshipper…(sighs happily) love ya! **LEGOSGURL**, hope you like this one too, and you'll have to wait and see, lol. thanks for reviewing! **Hearts Corruption**, thanks!! it always gets me off when people call me smashing. (looks around innocently) What?

**Author's Note: **Just to let you know, I in no way proclaim to be an expert on Elvish of any kind. I do not speak Elvish, and do not delude myself into thinking everything in this fic is correct. So, as is my wont to do, I apologize to any purists that this offends.

**Quick Note:** 'Adar' means 'father', 'Ada' means, basically, 'Dad', 'Edain' means 'Man' or 'Human', and 'elleth' means 'she-elf'. Just letting you know since they're the only things not translated.

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Morion pulled his hood lower over his face, the biting wind becoming uncomfortable even for him. Four of his warriors followed closely at his heels, their heads lowered against the stinging snow, relying on their senses to seek out any nearby life rather than their eyes. It's not as if they could have seen through the howling torrent around them anyway. They could barely see ten feet in front of them, and it was as bad as being blind to beings such as themselves, who were used to their sharp eyes catching everything, from a moth several branches up in a tree not too far away, to a bee drinking from a flower over a league away.

Not that there were any flowers, either. Valar, he hated winter.

Sure, it was all quite spectacular in a place like Imladris or Lórien, where Vilya and Nenya kept the destructive parts of the seasons from touching their Realms, or even in Mirkwood, where the huge trees shielded its inhabitants from the worst it, as did the royal family's magic. But out in the wild…he hated winter. And he was not an Elf of one of those mighty Realms, though his Realm was by no means weak. They were simply…more_ fey_ than most, living in the dense forests of the mountains as they pleased, and the only Elves they found worth associating with were their woodland kin in Thranduil and Isillinque's Realm.

Morion did have one exception, since he had known Celeborn for uncounted years, and for all that the foolish Elf had married a Noldo, he was still Sindarin, still Teleri in his heart. Therefore, he and his people had long accepted him, even if they didn't like his wife. The Kinslaying was a hard thing to forget, and though the Elves were wise enough to not put any blame on the newer generations of Arda-born Noldor offspring, Galadriel was not one of those, and she had been at Alqualondë all those years ago, her hands stained as bright a red as her brothers' and the rest of her peoples'. Elf did not kill Elf; it was forbidden and unforgivable.

It mattered not that she had been ignorant of the cause, that she had been lied to by her own kinsman, Fëanor, and told that they were the ones being attacked. Because Elf did not kill Elf. It was as simple as that. A Great Lady she might now be, supposedly forgiven by the Valar, but the Sindar, Nandor and Silvan Elves would never forget. They were the descendants of the Teleri that had been slain that day, and the grief and heartbreak would stay with them always. No one had understood how Celeborn, a Prince of Doriath, could wed a Kinslayer, but he had ended up being her salvation. All could see the love between them, and his people had no choice but to accept it.

And Galadriel…It was hard not to love the Lady, not to see how pure she was once again, but old wounds ran deep, as deep as the ocean, and not even all of the millennia that had washed the blood from her were enough for them to fully forgive. They tried, for Celeborn's sake, but the Lady knew how they felt, and the sorrow in her eyes whenever she was around any of them made it hard to carry on civil conversation. A particularly fierce gust of wind nearly knocked Morion over, and he snapped out of the daze he'd been in, cursing himself for letting the storm and the ever-growing cold lull him. His lieutenant, Maethornî, an elleth with bright hazel eyes, steadied him.

"We have to get out of this storm!" She shouted over the ripping wind, but he shook his head.

"Not yet, we're too close!" He shouted back, knowing that she was reading his lips more than anything else, just as he had been doing when she had spoken.

Far-speaking to Celeborn again earlier had let him know just how close according to Galadriel, and he knew that they had to be somewhere nearby by then. They were sticking close to the side of the mountain, since their vision was severely limited and they knew that Arwen had the sense to find a cave for herself and the prince. And while they searched for those two, five more of his warriors were heading towards the last place that Galadriel had seen the sons of Elrond, as told to him by Celeborn less than an hour before. He was quite furious with the two of them for taking off into a blizzard on their own, but they might very well be the Greenleaf's saving grace.

Because Morion knew that he and his warriors would find both the prince and Arwen, but he didn't think that he or any of his people could heal Legolas at this point. It was a miracle that he wasn't a wraith already. But the twin sons of Elrond Peredhil…Well. At the very least, the prince would at least stand a chance. And Morion didn't want to lose Legolas, for he and his people had long adored the prince with eyes the color of the forest, of the deep green sea. And Isillinquë was Morion's kinswoman, a princess of his people. Her grief was something that none of them wished to see, for her children and her husband were her world, the dearest things she held close to her heart.

Could he survive without his cousin? Their mothers had been sisters, his a noble and hers a queen by marriage, and they had grown up together in the wild woods before she had been seduced by a guard on the Greenwood patrol, a guard of boundless beauty and hair like a bloody sunset, a guard that had turned out to be none other than Thranduil, son of Oropher. And now her son, the Prince of Mirkwood and the Hidden Realm, was being corrupted by shadow. But his first true ray of hope came a minute later, when one of his warriors shouted and ran up to him, pointing one gloved finger, his nostrils barely visible and flaring under his hood.

"Smoke! Do you smell it?"

And he did. Taking off at as fast of a pace as they could manage, they fought the heartless storm as best they could, before the smell grew ever stronger, and they could see the source. It was pouring from a crevice in the mountainside, mingling with the forceful winds and slanting sheets of snow. He was sliding inside moments later, and he nearly choked, the smoke too thick to see through, let alone breathe through. Sticking his head back out, he took a deep breath and motioned his warriors to do the same, but going back in became unnecessary when he was shoved backwards by a huge wolf and knocked into Maethornî.

"What in the Valar's nam—"

But she grew quiet when the huge black wolf fully emerged, a very pale, very haggard, very sick Elvin prince slung over its back. A white wolf emerged just after it, the Evenstar on its back and not looking much better off. Two more wolves followed, wheezing hard, their gray sides heaving, one with the hilts of two short swords and one long sword in its mouth, the ends dragging the ground, and the other with two bows carefully clamped between its sharp teeth. Hoping that the wolves would recognize him, Morion held out one hand to the leader after removing his glove, and waited with bated breath, praying that the great beast wouldn't take his hand instead of his help.

Sereg approached him arrogantly after gently depositing his charge onto the snow, the other wolves closing around the prince and the Evenstar. A warm nose nudged his fingers, lips pulled back for an uncertain moment in a snarl before evening out again, and then the wolf backed away again, returning to the prince and dismissing Morion as haughtily as he'd come to him. Taking it for the unconcerned neutrality that it was, Morion moved forward, kneeling next to his prince as the others stood around, trying to block some of the wind. He didn't have time for a serious look, but the Greenleaf was bad off, very bad off, and they had to get him to safety.

In that, at least, he would not fail.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Arwen awoke slowly, surprised when she couldn't see a thing. All was dark and colorless, and she had a moment of pure panic before she realized that her eyes were _closed_. Cracking them open slowly, the light assaulted them even though a single candle was all that gave off any luminescence but for the natural, oh-so-faint glow of her skin. But no, that wasn't her skin glowing, it was another's, and hers seemed dull and lifeless for the first time that she could remember. Opening her eyes farther, she nearly screamed when she saw a strange Elf sitting beside her, regarding her curiously, his foreign braids sliding over one sculpted cheek.

He had silver hair; a darker silver than she was used to from visiting Lothlórien, but it reminded her of someone that her foggy brain couldn't name. His eyes, though, his eyes were black, and she had never seen such eyes on an Elf before. Another Elf sat beside him, an Elf with hair just a shade or two of lighter silver, its eyes a dark, startling blue. Both stared at her blatantly, and she stared right back, because she couldn't for the life of her think of anything to say. She knew that she wasn't thinking normally, and contributed it to the weariness that still pulled at her. But she was relieved of being the first to speak, when the second Elf greeted her.

"Mae tollen, Undómiel. How do you fare?" ((Welcome, Evenstar.))

"I…" But her throat felt dry and parched, full of soot and tasting of ash, and understanding flashed briefly over the Elf's face.

He leant over, taking a goblet of clear water off a small table, and she chanced looking around. They were in a medium-sized room of what appeared to be a talan, the rounded walls and ceiling testament enough to that. It was richly decorated, though in a rougher fashion than she was used to. The bed she was on was large, and the two chairs that the Elves sat on looked to have been moved from a table off to the left. Tapestries hung along the walls, tapestries of Beleriand, Doriath, Lórien, Greenwood in its prime and later as Mirkwood, and one of the Hithaeglir as viewed from far off in a high tree, the stars bright above the dark, snowy peaks.

"Here." The strange Elf said, offering her the goblet. Sitting up, she took it with a drooping hand, so tired she could barely make the reach. The water was sweet heaven sliding down her raspy throat, though, and she deemed the effort well worth it. Handing the goblet back, and trying not to let her shaking hand spill the rest on the seemingly kind Elf, she finally managed words.

"Hennaid evyr." She started slowly, and the Elf who'd given her the water and spoken nodded, while the other stayed as silent and still as he had been since she had awoken. "My companion…Where is he?" She didn't know who these Elves were, and as much as she wished to trust her kindred no matter what, these were dark times, and you could never be too careful. ((Many thanks.))

"Prince Legolas is in the next room with the best of our healers." The blue-eyed Elf replied, and she nodded slowly. So they knew her, and they knew him too. She hoped that was a good thing. "Your grandfather, Lord Celeborn, alerted me to your situation, and we came looking for you immediately."

"Who are you?" She asked, and the Elf with the black eyes finally spoke.

"We are the Moriquendi, the Dark Elves, the Hidden Folk."

She nearly fell off the bed as she scrambled backwards. His voice was harsh, daring her to say something, but her lungs seemed frozen, filled with dread. _Moriquendi, Moriquendi, Moriquendi_…It echoed in her head, echoed and echoed until she felt like screaming but couldn't, and she desperately tried to still her racing heart. _All right_, she told herself, _you can handle this. Just don't panic,_ _try to think, try to breathe_…Perhaps she was just dreaming, and she wasn't really in this nightmare. She had never really feared having Noldor blood in her veins before, but she did then. Because to these Elves, it marked her as an enemy.

"Tiro nin Elbereth." She whispered, her eyes wide as she watched them watching her, and those black eyes seemed to pierce her, while the blue still looked impassive. ((May Varda watch over me.))

"Don't scare her so, Helchon." He said, and those black eyes flickered to him for the barest of seconds before disregarding him entirely and coming back to rest on her. Those dark eyes hid something, some power she couldn't name, didn't _want_ to name, and she wondered if they would have been safer in the cave on their own.

"Look at her. She hears one word, and it changes everything. Suddenly, we are not heroes that saved hers and her friend's lives, but villains who might do what only her people have ever done." Helchon snapped, and she inwardly flinched.

"She has never killed one of her one kind, Helchon." The other responded, looking exasperated. "And anyway, she is the sister of the twin princes, and you like them well enough." Arwen would have choked had any air been in her lungs. _They know my brothers? My _brothers_ know Moriquendi Elves? How!?_

"Hmph." Helchon huffed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Perhaps, but they are kin of my kin through my grandson, and they no longer act like Noldos. She does."

"My brothers are not your kin." She said, surprised at the vehemence in her voice. Helchon sneered, and waved a jewel-laden, dismissive hand at her.

"What would you know? You are not bound to one of my line, now are you? But they are."

That took a moment to sink in. And when it did—

"_What!?_"

He looked at her as if he thought she were incredibly dense. "My grandson?" He said sarcastically, waving a hand in front of her face. "Legolas Greenleaf? Bound to the uncrowned princes of Imladris? Any of this making sense to you?"

Oh no, she didn't like this Elf at _all_.

"You are not Legolas's grandfather." She spat, and regretted it when his eyes flashed dangerously. Continuing cautiously, she said softly, "Oropher was his grandfather, and you are not him."

"Of course I'm not Oropher." He replied coolly, leaning back once more and looking at her with pity, as if his belief that she was adle-brained had been proven and she was not worth his anger. "I suppose you thought Thranduil just mated with himself, hmm? Or with a tree? Perhaps that's why Legolas is named the Green_leaf_? Honestly. I'm Isillinque's father."

"Oh." Was all she managed for a moment, as she tried to get her bearings. Legolas couldn't be part Moriquendi, could he? As if he knew her thoughts, Helchon spoke again.

"If you use the old meaning of the word, you are Moriquendi as well, for you never saw the light of the Two Trees." He said, and she shook her head forcefully.

"Do not say that is the meaning you meant!"

"It was not." He agreed, smiling without any real humor.

She nodded, and closed her eyes in thought. 'Moriquendi' did, at one time, mean any who had not seen Telperion and Laurelin. But now, and for a long time before, it refers to the Dark Ones, the Hidden Ones, the Elves who lived wild in the deep forests with their feral king. They were said to be mad, and dangerous, and all know that they had felt Morgoth's, and later Sauron's, touch more than any other Quendi. But if this Elf was truly Legolas's grandfather, than she had no choice but to trust him for the moment. She had always been told that Isillinquë had no family, but that, apparently, was far from the truth.

Because not only did his words ring of truth, but her fright helped clear her thoughts. She knew now where she recognized Helchon's dark silver hair. Isillinquë. Isillinquë and Elenhísë were the only other Elves she'd ever seen with that particular shade of silver, the color of mithril in its liquid form. And was that not the same shade that streaked through Legolas's mane? No, the resemblance was undeniable, and the blue-eyed Elf looked quite a bit like Isillinquë himself. No wonder she'd never heard anything more than vague whispers about where Thranduil had found his mate.

She wondered if the denizens of Mirkwood knew, or if they were just as clueless as the other Realms.

"Why do we know nothing of you if you are the grandfather of royalty?" She asked cautiously, and it was the sky-eyed Elf that answered that time.

"He is not just the grandfather of royalty, he is our king."

_Sweet Gilthoniel_, she thought dazedly, and wondered if she was going to pass out again.

"I want to see Legolas." She said suddenly, needing to be in his familiar presence and away from these strange Dark Elves. "And I need to contact my father and brothers." She immediately knew something was wrong when the nicer Elf paled and the other just kept staring at her, something odd flickering in those ebony eyes.

"They have already left Imladris." The blue-eyed Elf said after a moment. "Your father rides with Glorfindel and a small company."

And what of the twins?" They said nothing. "_What of my brothers?_"

"We look for them even now." The king said, those eyes still boring into her. "You will be notified the moment we find them."

"Can I see Legolas now?" She asked again, and she didn't like the looks once more being exchanged.

"If you wish." The king finally replied, and for the first time, something like grief flickered in those black eyes. "But I am warning you now that his condition is worsening. Do you understand me?"

"Yes." She said softly, her imagination spinning away and creating horror after horror. But she had to see her friend, had to know for sure that he still lived. And gods, how she wished to see her brothers... "Does King Thranduil know?"

"Most certainly."

"Alright. Take me to him, please."

And they did. It was a chore getting out of bed, and she wasn't used to feeling so helpless without having been wounded. But then again, wasn't fading a type of wound, grief being the weapon that causes such agony? She pondered this as they led her the short distance to Legolas's room, trying not to think of what she would see when she entered. They pulled the silk curtain back to let her pass through the archway, and she noticed the tapestries and sculptures and elegant decoration not a whit, her attention going immediately to her friend. He was laid out on a four-poster bed covered in furs, which had all been kicked to the foot of the mattress.

He was bound, his hands tied to the top posts and his legs to the lower, and he'd been bathed, the dirt and blood gone from his once-golden skin. Clean bandages wrapped around his wounds and his hair had been brushed and re-braided, glowing in the soft candlelight as much as his skin. But the glow was wrong somehow, not the usual silvery blue or occasional sea green that she had seen from him before, but a dark, reddish hue that sparked brown in some places and reeked of infection. His hands were curled into claws around the binds on his wrists, ripping and tearing at the mithril chains, the only metal that could hold him.

His beautiful face was contorted, twisted, layered with pain, suffering, hate…and something she could not name. His lips were bloody shreds from his teeth, his green eyes were rolling madly, and his body convulsed upon the sheets with every breath, working them off as the furs had been. The bandages were becoming slightly stained, testifying that the wounds were still open, and by the orange tint, they were still festering as well. He had lost weight, enough that she could see his ribs, but muscles as strong as ever pulled and strained fiercely, making the mithril scrape into the wood of the posts. She wondered how much longer they would hold.

"Oh, belegron, how you fight even now…" She whispered, moving forward on forgotten feet, nothing registering but her friend's torment. "How cruel for this to be your fate." ((mighty one))

"Do not—" The king started to say, but he was a moment too late, and Arwen reached out for her friend, her fingers lightly brushing skin as white as snow, skin that had once been a warm, honey color, full of brilliance and life.

As soon as she touched him, his eyes focused on her, his movements stilling for a moment, and she started to exclaim in joy, but he hissed at her, those green eyes alien and maleficent, and his struggling grew even stronger as he tried to get at her with those curled fingers. Jumping back, she closed her eyes in mourning, feeling as if he'd struck her. Crumpling slowly to the ground, she only distantly felt arms around her waist before she could hit the floor, and startled exclamations from those around her. And it sounded like more then two suddenly, as if the Elves outside were shouting something only faintly heard through the blizzard.

But she couldn't make out their words, and she couldn't think past her writhing, snarling friend. Her vision was swimming, whether with exhaustion or tears, she didn't know or care, and her whole body was shaking, everything seeming to crash down on top of her at once. She wanted her parents, her grandparents, her brothers…She _needed_ them, because she simply couldn't handle this alone. She felt as if she were breaking, as if she were splintering apart at the seams, and most of all, she wanted to lift her eyes and see _Legolas_, not this warped, twisted being before her with his face and form. The door burst open, and foggily, she heard an Elvin cry.

"We have found them!"

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Mithrandir was walking quite calmly along the bank of the Anduin when it happened. Now, you have to understand; what would have been extraordinary to most was just plain ordinary to him. He was a wizard, after all. These things were to be expected. In fact, because of them, he found more joy in what bored others (but for the Elves), things like flowers and trees and the endless sky. But even _he_ was taken aback when the events along that river's edge unfolded. At first, he paid no heed to the green dragon fish that had flopped up onto the bank, its fins flapping uselessly, as he knew that it was the fish's fate and he was unwilling to interfere.

Until it spoke, that is.

"_Mithrandir…_"

He froze, for once in his life quite shocked. Fish couldn't speak! Especially not with the voice of Thranduil's eldest son! And it _was_ Legolas he'd just heard, he was sure of it! Men passed too quickly for him to know the sounds of their voices so well, but he remembered the Elves' voices, especially ones he called friend. Then the fish flopped back into the river as if it had never been there, its gold eyes flashing in the sun. Confused, and not entirely sure that Curunír wasn't playing some slightly disturbing joke on him, Mithrandir continued down the river's bank, undisturbed for several minutes and thinking that maybe, he was just getting old.

Until an owl landed on his shoulder.

"_Despair's Captain…_"

Well, it wasn't nearly as strange to hear something intelligent from an owl, but it was _midday_, and that…that was the voice of Galadriel, was it not? What in Eru's name was going on? Saruman had better not be messing with him again…But this didn't feel like his friend's work, and the owl had _blue_ eyes. Something strange was definitely going on. But what? Why would he need to think of the Morgul Lord? It certainly wasn't a pleasant experience to draw up memories of that wretched creature. The owl briefly pressed talons into his shoulder, before shooting back into the sky and heading for the dark trees. Continuing on, more confused than ever, he decided maybe it _was_ Curunír.

Until the first snowflake he had seen that season tumbled onto his nose.

"_Beloved Ilúvatar, take mercy upon your children_…" This time it was Elladan's musical tenor, melancholic and despondent. "_Great One, please do not forsake us…Help us, Eru Everlasting, spare our love…_"

Another snowflake, another voice.

"_Manwë, Blessed One, do not let my precious Evenstar die out_…" Elrond's voice was laden with sorrow worse than any the old Istari had ever heard from him, quiet and broken. "_Do not steal my sons from me…please…_"

Another snowflake, perfect and glimmering.

"_Elentári, Queen of the Stars, long have I loved you_…" Ah, and the sweet, sad voice of Arwen, as perfectly tragic as her fate. "_Do not abandon us now…not now, sweet Elbereth_…"

Another snowflake, a hint of silver in white.

"_Ulmo, King of the Sea, Lord of the Teleri, hear my voice_…" And Celeborn, the wisdom and compassion in his timeless tone unmistakable. "_For we desperately need your aid_…"

Another snowflake, a flash of fiery gold.

"_Kementári, Queen of the Earth, always have I served you_…" Was that Thranduil that sounded so shaken, so unsure? Surely not. But it was. "_Will you not show me a bit of hope, of strong green growth? All I see is darkness_…"

Another snowflake, smaller than those before it.

"_Aulë, Lord of Invention, ignore me not as others do_…" Only one possessed that soft, constantly curious timbre. Ornutur, youngest of Mirkwood's royals. "_Help me help him, no matter the cost. He matters so much more than I do_…"

Another snowflake, darker than the rest.

"_Nienna, Mournful One, ages I have wept with you_…" Isillinque's trickling speech was always a pleasure, though it was now full of pain. "_In silence and with cold tears I watched my mother and brothers fade…Do this not to me again, I beg of you_…"

Another snowflake, icy blue and sparkling.

"_Oromë, Lord of Forests, Lord of Hunting, Lord of me_…" And yes, of course, the free-spirited Mirkwood princess, Elenhísë, who was constantly in the trees. "_Blow once more upon your great horn, majestic one, and let us know that we are not alone_…"

Another snowflake, symmetrical to the first, its edges a bit sharper.

"_Mighty Mandos, Master of Spirits, forgive me for my breach of faith_…" It would take a dead heart indeed not to bleed at the anguish and guilt in Elrohir's lyrical, velvety voice. "_But the dawn feels dead and the night as poisoned as my love._"

Another snowflake, a startling and most fascinating blend of black, silver and green.

"_I would give my soul, all my grace, for a single moment with them again_…"

And oh, he knew those voices. The three princes never sounded more ethereal then when they spoke in unison, and he had heard them do so many times over the years. But never had the situation been so very bleak, and Mithrandir understood perfectly now. The Valar had always guided him in strange ways, just never with prayers that had been sent to them on wings of withering hope. He knew now that it was not chance that had him so near the Misty Mountains right by the Old Ford, just south of the Weeping Stone. Slamming his staff into the ground, he whistled long into the wind.

It was time for the Grey Pilgrim to step into the fray.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Well, I hope you liked it! Please review!


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